


The Devil You Know (And The Devil You Don't)

by spectreshepard



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Past Relationship(s), if Kadara had an underground soap opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-21 20:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11951868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectreshepard/pseuds/spectreshepard
Summary: Andromeda is a place for pioneers and adventurers. Shepard is neither. Waking up on the Nexus after dying in the Normandy's destruction only proves that point. With the Initiative in tatters, Shepard reverts to a bare-bones state of survival. It's a bleak and brutal reminder of his time with the 10th Street Reds, and of a life before he was ever more than just a gun for hire.The good news: Kadara Port is a haven for people like him.The bad news: It's any port in a storm. Even if that port comes with strings attached, and a certain familiar face from a past littered with criminal secrets.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! It's finally done! Joining the MEBB this year was an incredible experience and really pushed me to write on a scale I've never done before. It's been a wicked ride, and I'm glad to be able to share the results with you all. 
> 
> Massive thanks go to [azzydarling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzy_Darling/pseuds/Azzy_Darling) for her [art](http://azzydarling.tumblr.com/post/164827991433/you-can-listen-to-the-playlist-here-i-absolutely) and amazing playlist which you can find [here!](https://8tracks.com/darlingazzy/the-devil-you-know-and-the-devil-you-don-t-for-spectreshepard) Further shoutouts to my betas, [alenkoblue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alenkoblue) and [lorspolairepeluche](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lorspolairepeluche) for putting up with this monster of a story and my rambling self <3 And a big old thank you to the MEBB discord crew who have been nothing but supportive!
> 
> So, without further ado...
> 
>  
> 
>   
>    
> 

Kadara Port.

It's a sorry mess. Shepard hates it, just like he hates the incessant bugs that come out in Earth's summer. Annoying, relentless, and everywhere you look.

He only wishes that he was anywhere near Earth.

Anywhere near home.

But this isn't home. This is Andromeda.

He curls a bruised hand around the edge of the ramshackle windowsill he's sitting on, overlooking Kadara Port's bustling streets, watching as the sun goes down over the Badlands in the distance. It's a pale, weak sun, ugly in the daylight, but dusk is... almost pleasant. The stifling heat of the day is swept away, the pale yellow light turning dark and orange as it falls over the gaps in the streets, lighting up the side of Shepard's face as he turns his head to avoid the glare.

His scars burn when the sun hits them. Shepard doesn't bother running a finger over them this time, knowing that they would keep on hurting until the sun went down.

Instead, he reaches down to the worktop nearby, swiping a pack of contraband cigarettes and plucking one from the box, chucking the packet back down and pulling out his lighter while he sets the cigarette between chapped lips. The familiar click of the lighter promises a momentary relief, and he draws in the first few puffs, letting the burn take hold. He breathes out the smoke, clouding Kadara's yellow sky with something closer to home, and leans his head back against the edge of the window.

_"Your payments are late."_

Shepard hears the beginning of the night settling in over the port, eyes drifting to land on a distant figure in the street below. It looms over a crouched turian who draws himself in when the figure moves closer, the unmistakable outline of a jury-rigged rifle marking itself in the shadow. Shepard breathes out another puff of smoke, obscuring the sight for a brief moment where he looks up and turns his eyes away from where the gunshot rings out, moments later.

He's lucky, Shepard knows. Lucky enough to be alive, and to have somewhere to live. His apartment is a small, dingy affair, dusty and cramped and sitting right at the top of the market district. It's never quiet, it always stinks of alcohol or the lingering remains of Oblivion, and every night, he hears another life go out.

There's nothing he can do, so he turns his eyes and watches his back.

The windowsill digs uncomfortably into his thigh, so he shifts and lets his leg hang out of the window idly. Shepard does this every night, a quiet ritual, a sense of being where he needed to be in a place that had absolutely no need for him.

In a galaxy that had never expected him.

Shepard doesn't pretend to understand his arrival in Andromeda any more than he did when he woke up on the Nexus. He's just had time to adjust.

Fourteen months, to be exact.

Fourteen months to pretend he's the _slightest_ bit okay. Fourteen months to pretend he knows what he's doing here. Fourteen months to spend alone, out of place and out of time, waiting for his chance.

He's still waiting.

Shepard flicks his cigarette, depositing the buildup of ash out of the window. He licks at his lips, tasting the smoke and remnants of cheap whiskey pilfered from a meek salarian earlier that day in the market. Stealing is almost second nature now, and Shepard hates that it doesn't bother him.

Kadara isn't a place where honest people can survive, and Shepard understands that survival is all he has.

Stealing isn't the worst thing he's done since he's got here, either.

He takes another drag of his cigarette and relishes the burn as he watches a drunken trio meander down the market street below. He wonders whether they simply found each other in Kralla's song and forged a temporary companionship, or whether they came here together. It's an idle thing to muse on, but it captures Shepard's attention for reasons he doesn't care to linger on.

Above everything, Kadara Port is lonely. Isolating. He only speaks to people who are about to owe him credits, or to people he's collecting from. Anyone in between is a momentary distraction; a blip in his radar that he ignores until it becomes a danger, or an inconvenience. Shepard doesn't exactly enjoy it, but he knows he doesn't have the time or the means to be a likeable man in a place where his survival depends on other people.

And that's a hard thing to win.

Shepard takes a final puff of his cigarette and stubs out the end on the windowsill, letting the butt fall to the grates below. Swinging himself back into his apartment, he skirts around off-kilter furniture until he reaches the dingy lounge where his stolen whiskey sits on a crate next to a rickety chair. He doesn't bother sitting, and instead swipes the whiskey as he passes, turning to head to the kitchen where a single fluorescent light buzzes ominously on the ceiling. He stalks in and digs out the cleanest glass he can find from a cupboard, pouring a measure of amber liquid into the glass when he sets it down.

"What a life." Shepard mutters to himself through gritted teeth, setting the bottle down with a harsh ring. He makes to pick up the filled glass, but an irritating beep ricochets through the tiny kitchen, pulling his lips into a thin snarl. He turns to find the sound, eyes landing on a datapad thrown haphazardly onto one of the counters.

 

_Incoming message -- Anubis; UNREAD_

 

Frowning, Shepard reaches back for his drink and takes a sip, swilling the liquid around his teeth before swallowing. The burn fills his chest with a fake confidence, and he picks up the datapad to unlock it. The holoscreen flickers as the message tab pulls up, and Shepard scrunches his nose up as the taste of the cheap whiskey hits him. Sparing a weary glance at the glass, he sighs.

"Guess you get what you don't pay for, huh?"

Turning back to the message blinking across his screen, he blinks a few times to let his eyes adjust to the focused light.

 

_Osiris,_

 

_Have K.D in place. There's information coming in from the Angaran Resistance, thought you might want in? There's a few spare shuttle parts and a bottle of whiskey in it for you._

_Good whiskey. Not the shit you drink._

 

_Let me know._

_Anubis._

_\--_

_RECEIVED 23:47 GST_

Shepard snorts derisively, dropping the datapad back down carelessly to take another swig from his glass as he walks back through to the makeshift lounge. He kicks the crate out of his way, ignoring the rattle and clang as weapon parts spill onto the bare floor. Grimacing, he makes a note to sort the mess out in the morning. Those are expensive parts. Probably worth way more than this place, he thinks.

The smell of sulphur is in every place in this hellhole, and even in his quiet, dingy haven, Shepard can feel the burn it leaves at the back of his throat. He dulls it with whiskey as often as he dares, as often as he can afford, but all it does is remind him of all the places he can't be, with all the people he's left behind.

Those are the nights when a few more sips turns into the whole bottle.

At least he can ignore the stench.

He can't ignore the message that he's just read.

Shepard’s expression darkens when he rolls the digital words over in his mouth. Another promise, another cleverly hidden bribe to some unsuspecting idiot, another unmarked death and they'd be seeing the profits off the back of some dead body.

Commander Shepard? He died in the ruins of the Normandy, in the empty space between stars he liked to call home. He died an honest man, if nothing else. He _died._

And it wasn’t the Commander who came back. He woke up in the empty space between stars he had no name for, with people that he couldn't tell apart, with names that meant nothing to him being thrown in his face until he finally snapped and bared his teeth. He wasn't used to being so powerless, and they'd thrown him to the wolves without a second thought.

"Exile or work with the Initiative, Shepard. I won't make another bargain." Tann had said, _sneered_ , looked at him through narrowed eyes, mouth turning those words into an ugly show of bartering for a life Shepard had lost once already. He had no intention of losing it again, so he ran.

Shepard finishes his drink.

He's not quite sure he understands the idea of survival if the first place he runs to is Kadara.

A heady combination of nicotine and alcohol serves up a storm inside his skull when he thinks too much, so he stops, leaning his head back to stare at a blank, peeling spot on the wall instead.

Tonight, the alcohol will numb him. Tomorrow morning, it will hurt. Shepard takes it as a compromise, just so he can say he feels something that isn't white noise running in the metal of his bones.

Synthetic. Artificial. Inhuman.

He spares a glance at the scattered papers on another crate across the room. His medical records, lifted from the Nexus by Calix, the turian responsible for the Uprising. Shepard had requested them in return for his help, and Calix had agreed, rather stupidly. He ended up with a bullet between his eyes while Shepard got away, and somehow, that doesn't bother Shepard either.

The records are... strange. Incomprehensible. They talk about synthesized skin and artificial bone weaves, cybernetics, biosynthesis -- an exhaustive list of all the things that make Shepard something less than human, and more _machine_. He doesn't pretend to understand it, no matter how many nights he spends trying to turn those words into something that makes sense to him. He always wakes up on the floor the next morning, empty bottle in one hand and crumpled paper in the other.

Eventually, he just stopped looking.

Shepard turns back to stare at the blank expanse of his ceiling. It's stripped bare, broken lights hanging from it in a vague attempt at illuminating such a dark building, but he's never bothered to fix them. He's usually passed out by now, anyway. A little light in the evening isn't going to make a difference, and especially not when Kadara's day cycle is completely beyond anything he'd call familiar.

The chair digs into his back, and Shepard groans. He can't get comfortable anywhere. Pulling himself up, he sets his eyes on his makeshift bedroom, yanking his shirt off as a thin layer of sweat settles over his skin in the heavy heat. The shirt ends up somewhere on the floor as he flops down, face-first onto his bed which is little more than a mattress on a dirty floor. His head is swimming with the flurry of motion, and he turns his face into the pillow, a hand fisting in his hair as he hisses through gritted teeth.

Another normal Kadara night. He'll find fitful sleep, and then another normal Kadara morning would follow, complete with a hangover and a foul taste in his mouth. Whether that's the smoking, or the idea of slowly and surely stringing up the hands of people with eyes set on blood-soaked credits, he's not so sure.

Shepard knows he'll just wash it down with more whiskey and a few cigarettes. Or maybe something better, if Anubis makes good on his word.

He smirks into his pillow, letting his eyes slide shut as broken sleep rolls over him.

* * *

The irritating beeping of his datapad is what wakes Shepard up the following morning. Each ping is a tiny bullet to the skull, drilling into bone and sending his headache blooming down his neck. He growls, throat hoarse, and pushes himself up, bones aching with a bad night's sleep. He rests on his knees for a moment, rubbing his eyes and dragging a hand down his face as a yawn pulls through him.

The beeping just grows louder and louder until it becomes unbearable, and Shepard is stumbling into the kitchen, swiping angrily at the datapad to unlock it.

 

_Incoming message -- Anubis; UNREAD_

_\--_

_Osiris,_

 

_I know you want in. Kralla's tonight?_

 

_Anubis_

_\--_

_RECEIVED 08:24 GST_

 

Of course he wants in. Just thinking of the credits waiting for him is enough for Shepard to start planning his next foray into the Badlands. Still, he smarts at the fact that Anubis knows just what he wants.

He always does.

"Bastard." Shepard mutters to the datapad as he swipes it into standby again, leaning heavily on the worktop. His stomach grumbles angrily, tight with hunger, and he considers opening another ration packet. He doesn't want to. Resources are stretched beyond breaking point in the Port, and Shepard doesn't want to wind up at the mercy of someone with illegal food stores who'll rob him blind.

He chews on his lip for a moment, and then decides on a cigarette to fill the aching hunger. He ends up back on his perch in the window, this time watching a pale sun fill the washed out sky. The streets are quieter down below, and Shepard is distracted easily by the bustle of market workers rolling out their ill-gotten stock for crooked people to come along and buy with stolen credits.

Kadara is just a way of life, Shepard supposes. It's just like any other corrupt city where the riches lie underground. His time on Earth had been no different, and his time on Earth is the only reason he knows how to survive this mess.

There's plenty of unmarked graves out there for souls less fortunate than him.

Shepard lets his mind wander until he finishes his cigarette and jumps back down into the lounge, heading for the shabby bathroom next to his room. The light flickers on when he walks in, almost filling the cramped space with his tall frame. He reaches to turn the tap on, hands curling around the edge of the off-white washbasin as he glares into the cracked mirror hanging askew over it. A pair of eyes stare back, one golden-hazel and one red, marred by synthetic implants running under lines where the skin has scarred, pulling down over the left side of his face. Shepard sees the sight every day, and every day, he feels sick when he runs a hand over the mutilated skin. His lips are chapped, still sporting the slow healing split he'd gotten from a fight last week. He can't remember what it was for. Doesn't bother trying.

The rush of running water pulls him away from his reflection, and he cups his hands underneath the stream to catch enough to wash his face with. The water is cool over hot skin, already sticky with sweat as Kadara heats up outside. He scrubs at his face, feeling the scratch of stubble under calloused fingers, and he shakes off the excess water. Shepard watches the way the water curls around and drains out, the motion almost soothing, but he eventually turns the tap off and reaches for a towel to dry his face.

Feeling a little more human, he stalks back out into the apartment and makes his way to his shady room, swiping his shirt off the floor and pulling it on. Once he’s done, Shepard heads out into the kitchen and reaches for the datapad he left on the worktop, shoving it into a worn rucksack. He moves back into the living area to find his cigarettes and throws them in too, pulling the window shut and locking it up. When he's satisfied, he heads out of the apartment, locking and double locking, and then he heads out into Kadara's yellow morning.

The market is always busy, and Shepard keeps a keen eye on the pockets of crowds along stalls, looking for anything he can swipe. There's an unmanned stall down the way boasting a stand of fresh paripo fruit; an 'import' from Aya's Resistance visitors.

Shepard scopes out the street, slowing his walk to pass by an unsteady stack of empty crates. He turns his head as he shoulders them, sending them scattering across the marketplace before slipping behind a pillar, waiting for the crowd to turn their attention. He waits a few moments before stepping out and stalking past the paripo stall, plucking two fruits as he moves past smoothly, rounding a corner into a deserted alleyway where he hastily stashes his loot into his rucksack.

He's gone before anyone realizes.

The elevator down to the slums is grating, the pulley system barely in working order. Shepard eyes it warily, wondering how much life is left in the system, but he quickly sets the thought aside when he steps out into the slums, avoiding the sulphuric pools.

Shepard picks out his route the same way he does every other day, finding his way into the underbelly of the slums as he passes under Tartarus into an open cave, jury-rigged as a mechanic's bay. There's a crude fence encircling the opening, chain-link and barbed wire, reinforced with scraps of metal ripped from broken shipping containers. It's ugly and brutal, but necessary.

He reaches the gate set in the middle of the perimeter and fiddles with the lock, swiping his omnitool over the console set to the side. It whirs and beeps slowly, and Shepard picks out the quiet unlocking of the system rattling through the metal. He pushes the gate open when the whirring dies out, stepping into the compound with a stifled yawn as the last of sleep loses its inky grip.

The smell of sulphur is mixed with oil and rusted metal as he moves into the bay, setting his rucksack down by a series of crooked worksurfaces set against the side wall of the cave. There's a wealth of parts stacked neatly in boxes and crates along hastily assembled shelves set into the cave wall. Everything here sits in order, along its own set of rules, and it's entirely unlike the chaos that sits outside that chain fence.

It's _his_ , a place built for him by his own hands and off his own back, and Shepard finds a quiet comfort in that. It's something he can't find anywhere else in this galaxy.

"You're late." A voice at the gate startles Shepard from his lazy musing, and he turns sharply, shoulders hunching as his hands curl into fists. He lands eyes on the owner of the voice, standing by the gate, leaning casually against the frame with a smirk plastered on his face.

"Reyes." Shepard sighs, stance relaxing somewhat as he stalks over, gesturing for the man to come in. Reyes slips past him and wanders into the bay while Shepard slams the gate shut before turning on his heel to spare a skeptical glance at Reyes' back.

"Morning. Sleep well?" Reyes asks nonchalantly, picking up a wrench from the worktop he passes, twirling it through nimble fingers as he turns to Shepard.

"Cut the crap." Shepard tells him roughly, walking over to pluck the wrench from Reyes' hands. The man looks more amused than offended, and Shepard just scowls at him before he turns his attention to the shuttles parked in the bay. They're all in working order, but Shepard's made sure they won't be going far unless their owners pay up. He spares a glance at the gate, half-expecting them to show up with an angry mob at their heels.

"That's no way to greet a friend." Reyes chides him, hoisting himself up to sit on the workbench while he watches Shepard with keen eyes. Shepard just snorts, pulling open the maintenance hatch of the shuttle closest to Reyes.

"Friend? You mean 'shady bastard who won't leave me alone', yeah?" Shepard sets the metal plate down by his side as he kneels to get to work. The wiring is fine, but he's loosened the connections enough to make it unreliable.

"That is also true," Reyes chuckles throatily, the sound rolling off the cave walls like it belongs there, "You got my messages?"

"Yeah, woke me up this morning with a buzzing hangover. Thanks." Shepard drawls, fiddling with another connection while Reyes drones on.

"Ah, well, it was urgent." Reyes points out, and Shepard can hear the dull thuds as his legs swing and hit the crates stacked below the worktop. "You didn't reply."

"My bad. I was busy." Shepard replies shortly, sparing a glance over his shoulder to Reyes.

"Busy? Of course." Reyes rolls his eyes, "No matter. I just need you to say the word and we have ourselves a rather lucrative deal."

"I'm hardly going to turn it down, Reyes." Shepard pushes off the shuttle, walking over to the workbenches to grab a few specific wrenches. Reyes watches him closely, and Shepard feels the way his hawk eyes almost burn into his skin.

"Good." Reyes hums, almost approvingly, but Shepard detects a faint edge of skepticism in his voice. He meets Reyes' scrutiny with a sharp glance of his own, spinning a wrench in skillful fingers as he turns away from the bench.

"Was that all?" Shepard sighs, irritation clouding him as he returns to work. He hears Reyes whistle through his teeth behind him, and the sound strikes a nerve.

"Hm. You are sharp." Reyes murmurs, pushing himself off the bench to land on his feet with a soft thud, kicking up a cloud of dust, "There is one more thing."

"Well, like I said, I'm a busy man. Don't keep me waiting." Shepard unscrews another fixing, just enough to make the circuit unresponsive.

"Those codes you lifted from Sloane, you still have them, yes?" Reyes asks, and Shepard sees his dusty boots moving into his vision, stopping by the shuttle.

"Yeah, I have them." Shepard briefly glances up to find the smuggler leaning against the shuttle, "They won't do shit now, though. Nexus probably rewrote those overrides as soon as we left."

Reyes nods in understanding, but Shepard can practically see the cogs turning behind those eyes.

"Yes, but it's _proof_." Reyes points out, matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather, and not the potential uprising brimming on Kadara. Shepard can see where he's going. He sighs heavily, sitting back on his haunches to face Reyes properly.

"Reyes, we're not pushing Sloane anywhere until we have actual, solid power. People here don't care about being right, they care about being alive. Can you offer that to them?"

Reyes leans his head back with a quiet groan, clearly frustrated. Shepard understands where he's coming from, but they have to be careful. Push too hard, too soon, and Sloane will bring down everything she has to stop them. They can't afford a loss like that.

There's also the matter of the Initiative breathing down their necks. Shepard's heard vague implications of a Pathfinder finally arriving in the Initiative's mess, and from what he managed to find out in his short stay on the Nexus, that's a big deal. Big enough to threaten Kadara's establishment as a free port.

Enough to get people worried.

People like Sloane.

"Listen, this... whatever this Pathfinder deal is, we know it's causing a stir. Sloane's on edge. Let's just wait it out. See what you can find out about them, and why they're so eager to land a favour with the Resistance." Shepard suggests, plucking idly at a thread from his worn trousers. Reyes is silent for a moment longer than Shepard likes, but he eventually heaves out a sharp breath and pushes himself away from the shuttle.

"If the rook waits too long, he'll lose the worm." Reyes says cooly, and Shepard just smirks.

"To who? The jackal?"

"Maybe." Reyes shrugs loosely, but he returns the smirk with one of his own, "Listen, Shepard -- we all but control this port; people can't come or go without you knowing, or without your parts. There's not a single merchant who doesn't owe me something, and the Resistance is lapping up every tiny drop of information I spare them."

Shepard nods slowly, scratching the back of his neck. He won't deny what Reyes is saying but Sloane's boot is firmly on their necks, and if they move too fast, they'll snap.

"That's just the underground. Sloane's still sitting on top." Shepard raises an eyebrow at Reyes, who only chuckles.

"Ah, but does Sloane Kelly really rule Kadara Port?" Reyes counters smoothly, turning on his heel. Shepard takes that as the finishing cue, and he silently concedes the point. If Sloane even knew about their operations, she's made no attempt at thwarting them, even through her lackeys. Shepard isn't sure whether she's biding her time, or whether they're slipping under her radar.

Either way, he's wary.

"I'll see you tonight. Kralla's?" Shepard asks wearily, and Reyes spares a final glance over his shoulder as he heads towards the gate.

"Kralla's. Don't be late." Reyes says, and with that, he's gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Shepard hisses as the screwdriver catches across his palm, trying to slide the shuttle plate back in place. He finishes tightening the last screw and drops the tool to the floor, sucking at the fresh cut before any dirt finds its way in. The flat edge has gouged an ugly red line across the heel, and it's starting to sting like hell.

"Hey, Shepard? You in?" A new voice settles on his peripheral, and Shepard glances over wearily to find a young turian lingering by the gate. He waves him in, watching as the kid rushes to open the gate and move into the compound. He kicks the gate shut behind him and half-jogs over to Shepard, clutching a datapad in his talons.

"Aetius." Shepard greets him, momentarily dropping his hand to take the datapad that Aetius offers, mandibles twitching. He rubs anxiously at his crest, and Shepard eyes him warily over the datapad. "You look nervous."

"I'm good!" Aetius squeaks, then breathes out sharply through his ridged nose, "I'm good." he repeats, words taking a proper shape this time. Shepard just raises an eyebrow at him before glancing down at the datapad.

"What have we got today?" Shepard keeps his tone level, not wanting to push the kid for information he didn't want to share yet, "Anything useful?"

Aetius nods sharply, cocking his head as he recalls some information for Shepard.

"Resistance are shaping up, something's got their attention. The Collective are sniffing around this one: Vehn Terev. He knows something."

Shepard hums quietly, chewing the inside of his cheek as he reads over the information flashing across the datapad. It's a mess of encoded transmissions, some decrypted, some left untouched, all pointing towards a wealth of information behind the angaran contact. Shepard makes a mental note to pass this on to Reyes later.

"Anything on this Pathfinder?" Shepard tries, and he sees Aetius shift from foot to foot in his peripheral.

"Nothing." Aetius sighs, and Shepard isn't surprised. There's a link buried in there somewhere, but the angara are keeping it close. Letting out a heavy breath, Shepard sets the datapad down on the workbench across the way before reaching for his rucksack. He pulls out one of the paripo fruits and waves it in Aetius' direction. The turian's eyes light up, mandibles flaring as Shepard draws nearer.

"Fresh paripo. See if you can trade for some dextro rations. Here." Shepard chucks it to Aetius who catches it easily, blinking in thinly-veiled surprise.

"Th-thanks." Aetius rasps, clutching onto the fruit tightly. Shepard manages a grim smile in his direction before he reaches for the cigarette pack stuffed at the bottom of the rucksack. He pulls it out, fishes for a lighter in his pocket, and lights up while Aetius rattles of a bumbling list of names that might have more information.

"Nuix says she--"

"They."

"--They, sorry, have some information from a Collective agent, and Kana's running background recon for them. No word from the rest of Omega squad yet, but we got a ping from their shuttle in the Badlands this morning, so they're still alive."

Shepard puffs out a roll of smoke, the cigarette held loosely between his lips as he frees up his hand to bandage the cut on his palm. He wraps the cloth securely, fastens it over the wound and glances back up at Aetius.

"Nice work, kid."

Aetius blinks again, but then his mandibles flicker in something Shepard remembers as a smile. For a moment, the markings on Aetius' face are stark blue instead of red, and Shepard has to look away.

"Sure. Need any help today?" Aetius asks, and Shepard doesn't miss the slight hopeful lilt to his question. He chews over his answer, looking at the shuttles assembled in the bay. Most of them are done and waiting for a pick-up, there's only one left to do and that'd take the rest of his day. He was counting on it. Kadara doesn't offer much else to do when the sun's still up.

"Nothing here, 'Tius, but I need you to keep an ear to the ground for some hydraulic actuators." Shepard tells him, taking another drag of his cigarette as he wanders over to the line-up of shuttles.

"Hydraulic actuators. Got it." Aetius nods, and Shepard pulls up his omnitool to run a brief scan of the shuttle in front of him. Aetius takes the silence as his cue to leave, and Shepard finally relaxes when he hears the gate swing shut again.

With no distractions following Aetius' departure, Shepard manages to work solidly for a few hours, hands black by the time he takes a break. He wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, pushing up and away from the shuttle that's mostly in pieces across the bay floor. The thin cloth of his shirt is sticking to his back uncomfortably, even when he shifts to dislodge it. Kadara's sweltering heat is barely kept at bay by the cave, he doesn't want to think of how hot it is past the gate.

His stomach tightens with a growl, and Shepard finally relents and heads back to his workbench. He cleans his hands best as he can with an old rag, and then plucks the last paripo fruit of his rucksack, swiping a switchblade from the tool rack. He finds himself a comfortable spot on one of the shuttles, sets the paripo down along with the switchblade and frees his hand so he can pull his shirt off. He balls it up and sets it behind his head, leaning back and getting to work on peeling the paripo's hard skin.

The fruit is sweet and refreshing in Kadara's muggy heat, drawing in close as the day starts to wane. He knows the night won't be much cooler, but it'll be a little more bearable when it's washed down with a bottle of whiskey later.

Shepard finishes the paripo just as his omnitool buzzes at his wrist. He swipes the holo up, opening the comm.

Reyes.

"What do you want?" Shepard asks, a little harsher than he means to be. Reyes looks visibly affronted for a split second before the holo crackles.

"We have a hit. Pathfinder's docking soon, Keema set me up as a Resistance contact."

Shepard doesn't hide his skepticism this time, eyes narrowing.

"You work fast."

Reyes chuckles, a flash of teeth curving into a grin over the holo.

"While I'd love to take the credit for this one, your boy was smart enough to string the pieces together."

"Aetius?" Shepard raises his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. "Remind me to spot him a pay raise."

"Your people can't say you don't look after them." Reyes says, candidly, but he quickly changes the subject, "We'll be at Kralla's earlier than planned."

Shepard hesitates, rubbing at his ear.

" _We?_ " he asks, and Reyes almost looks like he was expecting that reply.

"The stakes just got bigger, Shepard. The Pathfinder has the potential to turn the odds in our favour, but we need them on our side." Reyes sighs, rubbing his chin, "If we act as two separate players, suppose the Pathfinder leans towards one and not the other? We risk upsetting the balance."

Shepard almost rolls his eyes at the ridiculous intricacy of it all, but he isn't going to deny that Reyes is right.

They need the Pathfinder. They need outside influence. They need the Initiative putting pressure on Sloane Kelly.

This isn't a gamble they can play lightly.

"Fine." Shepard concedes, "When are we meeting?"

Reyes looks almost sheepish.

"In about an hour."

Shepard just growls and ends the call, sliding off the shuttle and grabbing his shirt. He doesn't bother putting it on as he shoves it back into his rucksack along with the pack of cigarettes and a few modded parts for a Carnifex pistol.

A contingency plan, Shepard reminds himself. Kadara Port might be a ceasefire zone, but he's pretty sure a pistol whip to the face isn't breaking any laws.

Swinging the rucksack onto his back, Shepard jogs over to the gate and swipes his omnitool over the console to initiate the lockdown. He waits for the confirmation to beep on the console before he leaves, breaking into an easy run through the sweltering heat of the slums.

He manages to avoid the worst of the afternoon crowds, skirting through the back ways of the port. Most of them, he'd found on Reyes' cryptic advice, but a select few he kept to himself. Just in case.

There was always a 'just in case' to find on Kadara.

Shepard dodges a flurry of motion as a krogan bouncer dumps a drunken turian outside a seedy bar. He snarls when the turian spots him, eyes shrewd and greedy and suddenly fixed on his rucksack.

"Don't try it." Shepard warns, voice low and dangerous. It's enough to discourage the would-be mugger who shies away, pushing himself up to unsteady feet and disappearing into Kadara's evening shadows. The krogan just rumbles his disapproval before stepping back inside, leaving Shepard alone in the street again.

Something doesn't sit right when he picks up the pace. The air is hot and heavy as it usually is, but there's a stillness to it that he doesn't usually find in the port. It's enough to make his footsteps falter as he rounds a dark corner, and then he finds two pairs of dark eyes glinting at him through the shadows.

Freezing on the spot, Shepard sucks in a breath, feeling the air growl sharp and chill, prickling over his bare skin. There's a cold spot suddenly pressing down on his side, and Shepard realizes it's the muzzle of a gun digging into flesh below his ribs, stopping him from moving. His mind kicks into overdrive, hands twitching, fingers unfurling, eyes flickering between the figures that slowly form into something solid.

Outcast thugs.

Shepard catches sight of their holstered guns, a blatant 'fuck you' to the people of Kadara who refused to fall under Sloane's regime. They act above a law that has no place here, and Shepard knows one wrong move will land him in more trouble than he can deal with.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, his N7 training kicks in. Instinctive. Mechanical. _Go for the eyes._ They're armed. _Disable them._ He's outnumbered. _They think they've already won; use it._

"Can I help you?" Shepard schools his expression into complete neutrality, eyes roving over the figures. Two humans. One of them scowls, the other one answers.

"You better hope so." she says, lips curling into a snarl. She edges forward, and he feels the gun press closer for a second before the pressure leaves. It's back with a vengeance moments later. Glancing down, he finds her hand is the one wielding it, now pressing the muzzle into the hinge of his jaw.

_Grab her wrists, make her drop the gun._

He slides his gaze to the other, finding the man stalking around behind him. They're looking for something.

Shepard supposes it was naive to believe Sloane had let them slip. Of course she knew what they were doing.

Steeling himself, he considers his options.

He could try and use his biotics, but he hasn't eaten properly in days and he can't afford that kind of energy drain with no backup, unless he wants to be crawling into a doorway until somebody finds him. He could try and physically disable them, but he doesn't believe for a second that they'll obey the ceasefire law if it means keeping him down.

His N7 training slips back into place like well worn armour. They're overconfident; they won't expect a fight.

He smiles grimly when the woman orders her accomplice to search him. She's distracted.

_Do it. Take the gun. Now._

Shepard pulls his arms up to knock the woman's hand back, catching her wrist and pulling the gun out of her grasp in a blur. She shouts something, a jumbled word that Shepard doesn't catch as he turns to find the other man with a warning growl. The man leaps forward, momentum crashing into Shepard and sending him staggering backwards. Shepard knows he's tired, slower than he should be, and he can't regain his balance quick enough -- the man strikes again with a hard jab to his stomach that drives the breath out of him with a groan, and Shepard drops the gun. Before he gets a chance to recuperate, Shepard feels the heavy weight of the man's hands at his head, pulling him down as his knee slams into his nose and sends him reeling backwards in a flash of blinding agony.

_"Fuck!"_ Shepard spits out the first few drops of blood seeping from his nose, stumbling forward to land a counterattack. He doesn't make any useful contact, thrown even more off-balance by the blow to the face. His ears ring louder when he tries to shake his head, swaying heavily. He can smell the blood, he can taste it in the back of his throat. Every other sense is blurred, lines breaking, shattering his perception for brief moments that his attackers use against him, delivering a slew of kicks and awkward punches until he's on the ground, struggling to keep his eyes open. He can feel the cool metal beneath him, the faint smell of sulphur rolling through those underground circuits. It's jarring, heightening each sensation until he's burning up, nerves on fire.

"Search the bag." Shepard hears the woman speak again, her voice moving along those blurred lines where he can't quite reach. He groans as the adrenaline starts to crash, hitting him with a fresh wave of hot pain. The heat in the air is back, weighing him down, making him sick to the stomach when it mixes with the copper tang of blood and the salt of sweat.

There's a faint rustling behind him, and Shepard doesn't bother to look. They won't find anything, he knows that, but they know he's got something. That's enough to worry about. Sloane's got him marked.

"Just a t-shirt and some cigs, and some... parts? Useless shit." the man's voice filters across, broken into jagged sounds that hurt when Shepard listens to them.

"What? We pulled that shit for nothing?" the woman hisses, and Shepard can feel the thud of her boots on the metal grate.

"We need to go, Collective patrol will be around soon."

"Yeah. One sec--"

The heavy boots draw closer, until they're in Shepard's peripheral. He feels the tread on his skin, the pressure as she pushes down on him and turns him onto his back with a grimace.

"You're lucky Sloane doesn't want you dead." is all she says before he spots out into blackness.

* * *

The sun is still in the sky when Shepard opens his eyes again. He almost gags at the wave of sulphur smell that hits him, mixing with the blood on his teeth. His mind is racing as he pulls himself up, slowly, aching all over.

"Shit." Shepard drags a hand over his face, fingers swiping at the blood stemming from his nose. He can feel the trail running over his mouth and his chin, and when he looks down, there's red spots sitting on his bare chest, staining the dogtags hanging from his neck.

Getting held at gunpoint on Kadara isn't unusual, but this? This is something else. Shepard swallows thickly, a quiet fear taking hold. This route is one of his own hidden ones, carefully plotted for minimum exposure. If the Outcast can find him here, there's no doubt his apartment is a write-off. He grits his teeth, hot anger springing through his burning muscles when he pushes himself to his feet, grabbing his rucksack with an angry string of curses.

He pulls up his omnitool, pain shooting through his body when he turns too sharply. He ignores it as best as he can, pulling up Reyes' comm link and pushing a call through.

The ringing is hollow, rattling over his skin like chains.

"Shepard?" Reyes answers, voice smooth and mellow as ever. It offsets some of the burning sensation humming over his skin.

"Reyes." Shepard doesn't bother putting the call into vidmode, glancing over his shoulder as he starts to walk. He's not sure where he's going. "I need-- shit. I need to drop by your place."

Reyes is quiet for a moment, and Shepard's entirely sure he's trying to work out what's happened.

He'll find out soon enough.

"What's happened?"

"Reyes, I'm not-- I'm not _asking_. I need to get out of sight."

There's an audible sigh over the line. "Be quick. We're meeting the Pathfinder soon."

Shepard just grunts out a reply and shuts the comm, heaving out a sigh as he finds his feet and pushes into a walk. He keeps his head down the entire way to Reyes' place, only sparing glances to darkened corners or quiet storefronts.

The majority of the trek is a blur of metal and neon, interspersed with the usual hubbub of Kadara's evening rabble. It bleeds out into white noise when Shepard thumps a fist on Reyes' door, the rap of knuckles on solid metal ringing through the derelict corridor of the apartment block. The door opens almost immediately, and he stalks in, not bothering to spare Reyes a glance.

"What the fuck?" Reyes' accusation  follows him in, and Shepard just offers up another noncommittal grunt as he dumps his rucksack onto a rickety chair. He rolls his shoulders with a wince, craning his neck back to stare at the ceiling for a moment, until Reyes' voice is at his ear, demanding.

"Shepard?"

Shepard breathes out harshly through his nose, rubbing the last of the dried blood from his nostrils with a dirty hand as he looks at Reyes, finally.

"Sloane's made her move." Shepard tells him flatly, and the sharp look of warning in Reyes' hazel eyes sets Shepard on edge, teeth grinding.

"They didn't follow you--"

"I'm not fucking _stupid_ , Reyes. I made sure I was alone." Shepard hisses, rubbing at his brow. Reyes' glance softens considerably, and he turns his attention to the bruises blooming over Shepard's torso, spilling over his ribs in ugly, faint blotches.

It's then that Shepard realizes the extent of his engineering is on show. The same red lines that tear up his face are running along his torso and ripping through skin, creating hollow scars that fill with a low red light, almost humming with artificial life. He feels cold, despite the warmth of the room and Reyes' careful stare, and a quiet fear laps at his skin.

Reyes almost runs a finger over them, but he stops just short of Shepard, who looks at him with quiet contempt. He's clearly shaken from his fight, angry, coiled tight with a tension that's threatening to snap.

In that following instant, Reyes almost looks afraid to touch him.

"Look, can I use your shower? We're gonna be late." Shepard swallows audibly, breaking the terse silence. Reyes clears his throat and points him in the direction of the bathroom, and Shepard stalks away, shoulders hunched.

He finds his way into the bathroom, dimly lit and cramped, but safe enough. Leaning against the door as it shuts, Shepard takes a moment to breathe slowly, counting in and out, trying to bring himself down from his panic. He reaches into the shower stall to turn the water on, leaving the nozzle on a low temperature. While the water runs soothingly, he turns his attention to unlacing his boots with shaking fingers, kicking them off along with his jeans and boxers before stepping under the cold stream with a sharp breath.

"Shit. That's cold." he hisses through his teeth, but the bitter sting ebbs out and leaves him feeling more alert than before, enough to pull himself together and start scrubbing at the blood on his face. Shepard watches the water turning a muddy pink at his feet, and he scrubs until it runs clear again. Everything's starting to burn with a dull ache, and Shepard knows he won't be out late tonight unless he's got the drink to drown it out.

Where Reyes is involved, he almost expects it.

Sighing, Shepard scrubs over his skin, getting rid of the day's dirt and dust from the workshop in the process. He's in the shower long enough to warrant a hasty knock on the door from Reyes.

"Shepard, we're really going to be late." Reyes calls, and Shepard shuts the shower off with a hiss. The heat from outside is still lingering, clinging to wet skin as he steps out and reaches for a towel to dry off. He grits his teeth as his hands travel over his bruised ribs. They'd be murder in the morning.

"Shepard?" Reyes calls again, and Shepard almost growls.

"Alright!" he snaps, clumsily pulling his boxers and jeans back on, picking up his boots with one hand and chucking the towel into a corner with the other to yank the door open. Reyes almost falls through with an undignified yelp, and he scowls up at Shepard when the taller man throws an arm out to stop him.

"That's what you get for lurking." Shepard says drily, lips pulling into a thin smirk when Reyes scoffs and pushes out of his grip.

"Ah, you're not going out like that, are you?" Reyes throws a glance over his shoulder as he stalks down the hallway to the main living space, cocking an eyebrow as he looks over Shepard's frame.

"What? With no shirt?" Shepard snorts, "Yeah. Thought I'd give the Pathfinder a show. Make an impression, you know?"

Reyes snickers, turning back.

"Well, I'm sure that would work." he says, and Shepard catches something underlying his tone, "You're not exactly hard on the eyes."

"Aw. Is that a compliment?" Shepard throws back, reaching into his rucksack as he enters the lounge. He pulls his shirt out, sparing a glance over at Reyes.

"Maybe." Reyes shrugs, leaning by the door out of the apartment. He just smiles thinly, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes as his arms fold across his chest, waiting for Shepard.

"Maybe I'll take it, then." Shepard pulls the shirt on with a sigh, raking a hand through his wet hair to try and make some sense of the mess it's turned itself into. He doesn't bother doing much else, and makes his way out of the apartment past Reyes, who turns and locks the door behind them.

They walk in comfortable, albeit slightly heated silence for a while. It's not until they reach the market that Reyes speaks again, and Shepard can feel how reluctant he is next to him.

"I know this isn't... ideal."

Shepard spares him a glance, but he doesn't dwell on it. Turning back to the street in front of them, he sets his eyes on a merchant vying for some attention from passers-by.

"You'll have to be more specific, Reyes." Shepard says, voice gentle in Kadara's dying light.

"Can't always have my smoke and mirrors, hm?" Reyes sighs, a heavy lilt seeping into his words. He's tired. His accent always deepens when he's tired.

Shepard runs his tongue over his teeth for a moment, trying to find the shape of his words. "At least we're honest liars. A little more than can be said for a lot of people here."

Reyes doesn't look convinced when Shepard turns to him again. They head up a flight of metal stairs onto the upper level of the markets, pulsating bass ringing through the rusted grates of the floor. Kralla's is in full swing, and Shepard's just waiting for the headache that's threatening at the base of his skull.

"Honest liars?" Reyes' lips quirk up into a quiet smile as he glances down, "I've been called worse."

"I'm sure." Shepard manages a grim chuckle, slowing to a stop outside the doors to Kralla's, waiting for the overloaded automated system to kick into action. He doesn't really know what to say. Reyes is right; this situation is hell on a good day, and on a bad day? Well, Shepard just knows he's lucky to get away with some bruised ribs. Sloane's out for blood, and she's only biding her time.

"Listen-- yeah, this isn't ideal. But..." Shepard starts to say, and he falters when Reyes looks at him. He looks hopeful. Actually, genuinely hopeful.

The last time Shepard had someone look at him like that was... the Citadel. Gunning for Saren over the ruins of the Presidium, Ashley had stopped him, asked him if he knew what he was doing.

He'd just smiled.

So Shepard smiles at Reyes, the same way he did back then. It's as honest as he dares to be with a man like the Charlatan watching him, but he hopes it will be enough for now.

"But... it's good enough, no?" Reyes tries to finish the sentence. It isn't what Shepard was going to say, but he lets him have it.

"It's good enough."


	3. Chapter 3

Shepard and Reyes finally step into Kralla's thrumming sound, both of them enveloped in the neon lights and shadows cast across the room when the doors slide shut behind them. Reyes relaxes instantly, shoulders slouching as tension dissipates in the air around him. He flashes a dangerous smile, a hint of sharp teeth to the turian bouncer by the door, receiving a wordless grunt in response as the turian points him towards the bar.

"Ah, the Pathfinder's a punctual type, I see." Reyes chuckles, the warm sound jarring in the red light. Shepard follows Reyes' gaze to land on the back of the one person who looks entirely out of place in this dive: white shirt, stark against the grim colours of the room, pulled tight over athletic shoulders, hunched against prying eyes. He's got his back to them, staring out of the viewport with his hands curled tight around the railing running along Kralla's edge.

Shepard snorts, lips curling into a half-smile of bitter amusement. "He looks  _ completely  _ out of place."

Reyes nods beside him, shrugging loosely as he trails a hand along the banister leading down the metal steps into the bar. "Of course. He's Initiative, remember that."

Shepard isn't about to forget it anytime soon. The stark blue on that uniform is enough of a reminder, let alone the way half the people in the room are eyeing the Pathfinder up, probably marking him as an easy target.

He can't blame them, either. If Shepard was going to pinpoint somebody to rob blind and get away with it... well, the Pathfinder is looking like the most promising opportunity in a room full of opportunists.

He tells Reyes as much.

"I know." Reyes murmurs as they descend the steps, both pairs of wicked gold eyes scouring the place. "We'll need to keep an eye on him."

Shepard lets Reyes lead the way when they hit the bar floor, remaining a step behind. He finds it easy to lose a layer of his armour to the throbbing bass of the night, and he knows he'll find it easier still when he has a glass of whiskey firmly in hand. After the day he's had, Shepard finds himself looking forward to the prospect of another blank night.

"Hey!" A sharp voice cuts through the noise in the room, drawing both Reyes and Shepard to look. Umi's staring down a krogan over the bar, and by the firearms he's carrying, Shepard harbours a guess that he might belong to the Outcasts.  _ Great _ . He's already tensed up, hands balled into fists, shoulders straight.

"Don't." Reyes warns Shepard lowly, words almost lost in the thudding music. Shepard spares him a heated glance as he lets his fists uncurl slowly.

"You order, you pay." Umi growls, hands splayed on the bartop as she sneers. The krogan stumbles, growling as he turns back to her to protest loudly.

"I  _ said-- _ " the krogan barely gets two words out before Umi slams a knife into the bartop, splintering wood until it hits metal, and the krogan stops short. His omnitool is flickering into life moments later as he transfers the credits before he turns to leave, shoving roughly past Shepard.

"Asshole." Shepard throws over his shoulder, and Reyes thwacks him on the arm before he carries on to meet the Pathfinder, leaving Shepard lingering behind.

"You look like you're waiting for someone." Shepard hears Reyes say, smooth and purposeful, graceful steps cutting behind the Pathfinder's back until he appears at his side. The Pathfinder almost jumps, and Shepard spots the way his grip turns white on the railing. He's nervous.

Shepard leaves Reyes to start things off, diverting to the bar and sparing a strained smile at Umi, who only glowers at him.

"If you and your boyfriend start anything--" Umi sighs, and Shepard just waves her off.

"He's not my fucking boyfriend. Three whiskeys."

Umi doesn't look convinced, but she serves up three mostly-clean glasses and fills them a quart each. He's about to pay, hand hovering over his flickering omnitool, when he hears Reyes introduce them to the Pathfinder.

"Shena. But you can call me Reyes." he says, and Shepard slides one glass down the bar to hit Reyes' elbow where he's leaning back on the counter. "And this is--"

"Cade?" A new voice. A cold one. A blue one.

Shepard freezes. For a moment, he feels as though he's in empty space; Kralla's violent music bleeding out like his life in the stars he finds himself in, alone, gasping for air that doesn't exist, an old name on his lips. When he cracks his eyes open, he finds himself staring into bright blue as his world comes crashing in in floods of red neon, the taste of whiskey on his lips, the taste of  _ him  _ on his lips, his name blurting out--

"Scott."

Shepard isn't quite sure what hits the ground first: the tension or the glass.

Either way, it shatters.

Reyes looks between them. He doesn't say a thing until Scott takes a careful step forward, and then Reyes is almost standing in-between them, a hand out, ready to diffuse.

"Let's keep this--"

"What the  _ fuck _ ?" Scott snaps, almost brushing Reyes to one side. The man visibly smarts, eyes narrowing as they land on Shepard, who just glances between the both of them helplessly. He finally cracks when Scott takes a cautious step forward.

" _ You're _ the Pathfinder?!"

"You're  _ alive _ ?!"

"This isn't going how I expected." Reyes sighs to himself, but Shepard snaps his gaze on him with a growl. _ Shut up. _

"You died!" Scott points an accusing finger at Shepard in the moment that follows, and Shepard only spares him a sideways glance, not willing to face that fact.

Strictly speaking, Scott isn't wrong. He did die. That part, he could probably explain.

Waking up in Andromeda 600 years later? Not so much.

"That he did." Reyes fills in smoothly, and he holds a hand up when Scott tries to interrupt him again. There's a fire to Reyes' eyes that Shepard recognizes, and he holds his own tongue, reaching to the bar for the last remaining glass of whiskey. He turns away to down it harshly, slamming the glass back down as the burn takes hold.

"I wasn't  _ talking  _ to  _ you _ ." Scott hisses from behind him, and Shepard spares a glance over his shoulder. He's squaring up, taller than Reyes, but leaner, slower. Shepard eyes the way Scott's fingers curl into careful fists, his stance turning in an instant to one that Shepard recognizes from Alliance basic. Scott's thinking like a soldier. Soldiers aren't built for Kadara.

Reyes would have him on the ground before he could blink twice.

Shepard pushes off the bar and sucks in a breath. The club music is dulling his nerves along with the cheap alcohol, and it's enough to make Scott's sharp edges seem... less.

"This isn't exactly... easy to explain." Shepard tells Scott, eyes fixing Scott's gaze. The blue is boring into him like nothing else, almost blinding in the dim red light. Scott's mouth quirks into a scowl, brow furrowing.

"People don't come  _ back  _ from the dead!" Scott says through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing. "And people shouldn't make promises they can't fucking keep."

Shepard is vividly thrown back to a hazy evening on Arcturus Station, back in the Milky Way. Quiet laughter, nervous fingers clutching into a shape they'd just started to learn between the two of them. A promise. A carefully constructed illusion. _ 'I'll be back', _ he'd said. Scott had only smiled, and even then, Shepard had gotten the impression that Scott didn't believe him. But Scott just... he just smiled. He said nothing. He held Shepard's hand a little tighter, and stared out into the Arcturus sky.

That was when Shepard knew Scott would always belong to the stars more than he'd ever belong to him.

"I didn't  _ ask  _ to be brought back, Scott." Shepard's calm enough to speak levelly, a hidden gesture to Reyes behind his back. Reyes steps back, muttering something about repaying Umi for the broken glass. Scott watches the man leave with a shrewd glare at his back, before he turns it on Shepard again.

"What? You just fucking  _ woke up _ here?" Scott snorts incredulously, folding his arms tight across his chest again, feet planted apart and shoulders back.

"Yeah." Shepard shrugs, "That's exactly what I did."

The stark admission trips Scott up. He falters over his words, mouth falling open on hollow sounds until Shepard decides to fill in the gaps.

"Look, I was clinically brain dead. Someone, somewhere, brought me back and threw me into cryo on the Nexus. That's all I got." Shepard's words are clipped, pulled tight with reluctance. This is a story he's told before, but every time, it hurts a little more. Every time, home seems further away, even if it’s standing right in front of him this time.

Scott just stares back at him.

"Why?" he asks, sharp and cold. Shepard feels it like a bullet to the chest. The question hangs in the air like the empty shell from the gun, suspended in a freeze-frame neither of them want to touch.

"I don't know." Shepard says, and for once, he's being entirely honest.

They stand in silence again. This time, it's not as cold. Shepard finds himself on a knife edge, eyes flickering between Reyes and Scott with careful measure. Reyes is standing with a fresh set of drinks at the bar, and he turns to Shepard with his mouth drawn in a thin line, eyebrow raised. He's not impressed.

Shepard doesn't care.

He's about to head to the bar when Scott speaks again.

"If you're here, then I assume you're-"

"An exile? Yeah." Shepard cuts him off before he finishes, gesturing for Reyes to pass him one of the quart full glasses. Reyes obliges, looking over at Scott.

"A drink?" Reyes offers, tone pleasant and inviting, and Shepard knows he's laying it on. He ignores the jealous twinge in his gut as he takes a sip from his own glass.

Scott just nods, eyes narrowing slightly as they run over Reyes in quiet scrutiny as the man passes Scott the second glass, and takes the third for himself.

"I'll take it that you two know each other." Reyes says simply, almost amused. Shepard just shoots him a withering glare, breathing harshly through his nose.

"That's... yeah. Sure. We know each other." Scott cuts in, not willing to be left out of the conversation that he can see between Shepard and Reyes. Shepard doesn't miss the glance he throws at Reyes, then. Perhaps his jealousy isn't unfounded, Shepard wonders for a second.

"Well, we won't deny friends in unlikely places." Reyes smiles at Scott, but Shepard can see every bit of his mask slipping into place. He turns away and downs his drink, willing the whiskey to dull the last of his senses. He wants tonight to blur away into nothing.

It would sting less, Shepard knows.

Reyes shifts on his peripheral, moving into his usual casual lean against the bar. He's comfortable here; this is his territory. It's Shepard's too, though, and he likes to remind him of that. He stands straighter, shoulders set squarely as his arms fold across the muscled expanse of his chest. Reyes spares a sideways glance at Shepard, but turns back to Scott in a blink.

"I... was expecting someone more angaran." Scott admits candidly, raising an eyebrow as he twirls his glass, watching the whiskey swirl. He takes a sip, looking at Reyes pointedly.

"The Resistance pays me to supply information -- among other things." Reyes says smoothly, and Shepard listens intently, waiting for the loophole. There's always one.

"So, you're a smuggler?" Scott clarifies, keeping his distance but leaning up against the bar, setting his drink down. Shepard smirks, amused.  _ Smuggler  _ was being nice. There's plenty worse things Reyes could be known as. Shepard decides to keep his mouth shut, however, even after Scott shoots him a questioning look.

Reyes chuckles, a low rumble in his throat, giving a one-armed shrug as he takes a sip from his glass. He deigns to give a real answer, instead choosing to spur the conversation in the direction Shepard knows he wants to go.

"Your man -- Vehn Terev -- was arrested by Sloane Kelly. Word spread about what he did to Moshae Sjefa." Reyes says, carefully gauging Scott's reaction. To his credit, Scott barely bats an eyelid.

"The people are calling for his execution, and Sloane..." Reyes tilts his head as he trails off, weighing up his words. Shepard feels his skin burn at the mention of Sloane and it shows on his face, lips curling into a sneer.

"And Sloane is a woman of the people." Shepard throws in, words stretched out with a bitter ire that isn't lost on the two other men.

"That doesn't sound awful, exactly." Scott says, and Shepard chuckles grimly, almost expecting that exact response.

Turning to face Scott, Shepard lets out a heavy breath that his words follow. "It will. She doesn't like you."

Snorting, Scott pushes up from the bar. His stance turns indignant, eyes sparking with a quiet challenge. "She's never met me."

Reyes downs the rest of his drink and sets the glass on the bar with a dull ring that draws both Shepard and Scott back to him.

"You work for the Initiative." Reyes sighs, fingers tapping on the bar as he delivers his words carefully. "Sloane was part of the uprising on the Nexus."

Scott looks at Shepard, brow knitted in confusion. Shepard licks his lips, dredging up the last of the whiskey droplets while he thinks of a way to clarify the situation, and also pull some careful strings. Having the Pathfinder on their side isn't just a convenience at this point; it's  _ necessary _ .

"How much do you know about the uprising?" Shepard asks, and Scott just shakes his head.

"Not much. Everything went to shit, and... that's about all I understood." he admits.

"I guess that's all you really need to know. It wasn't pretty. A lot of people died trying to get out." Shepard rubs his chin absently, stubble scratching over his fingers. Scott's expression flickers into one of surprise for a brief moment before he schools it back to neutrality.

"And the people who made it-- well, let's just say they're not willing to forgive so easily." Reyes adds, unusually sombre. Shepard catches a rare glimpse of an honest man before the mask slips back on.

"Yet, here you both are, talking to an Initiative figurehead." Scott says, and Shepard can see the question waiting behind Scott's words.

"Your interests align with ours." Reyes answers simply before turning the conversation back, "Sloane won't give Terev up so easily."

Scott's mouth quirks into a half-smile. Shepard remembers it with a dangerous pang of nostalgia.

"Well, I'm taking him. With or without her permission." Scott tells the both of them, blue eyes electric through the neon haze as he glances between them. Shepard cracks a genuine smile, quiet and shy, but real. Reyes chuckles again, pushing himself off the bar and stepping back.

"We're gonna be friends, you and I." Reyes is going in for the kill, the final push towards a mutually beneficial agreement. Shepard feels torn between his instinct for survival riding on Reyes' success, and being honest to a man he used to call home. Looking at Scott, he starts to wonder if there's any point in dwelling on the latter idea. He must have moved on, by now.

"There might be another way to get to Vehn. You work Sloane, I'll talk to the Resistance." Reyes offers, laying out the path he wants Scott to follow.

"And you?" Scott throws the question to Shepard, who only manages a half-hearted shrug.

"I just keep people out of your way." he says, nonchalance sitting pretty on bitter words. The conversation trails off after that. Shepard watches Reyes spare a glance around the bar, scoping out just how long he can stay anonymous for. He never stays out long, and never with the same people.

Shepard has been an unusual exception, and he knows it.

"Well, I should get to work, hm?" Reyes ties up the loose threads of conversation, glancing between the two men either side of him. Shepard just nods, once, an affirming gesture that gives nothing else away. Reyes smirks back and says nothing else as he steps away, eyes landing on the exit to Kralla's.

"Wait-- how do I contact you if things go south?" Scott pipes up, directing the question at Reyes back. Reyes turns on the spot, smirk still firmly in place as he regards Scott up and down. Shepard doesn't hide his distaste; mouth twisting into a hard line. Reyes isn't going to answer. Shepard just watches as he winks in Scott's direction without a word, before he turns and disappears into the heaving crowd.

Shepard doesn't dwell on the fact that it's just the two of them left.

"That wasn't an answer." Scott says flatly, and Shepard looks over at him. He's lit up in the wrong shades of purple and red, clashing in crude lines across his skin bared by rolled-up sleeves. Kralla's isn't his place, much less so the rest of Kadara.

Shepard just sighs, a little amused at Scott's complete misunderstanding of how Kadara works. "He's not going to give you one."

Scott almost scowls, stuffing his hands into his pockets and dropping his gaze to the ground. Shepard is keenly aware of how awkward this is. He's willing to bet that he's not the only one trying not to think of how much closer they could be standing. It still stings to think that there's the slightest chance that Scott is somewhere else entirely.

Shepard's used to being disappointed by now, though. It would just be another notch on the bloody wall.

"Listen, there's-- there's a lot to explain, but I understand if you don't want to hear it." Shepard tells Scott, trying not to sound hopeful. Scott just looks at him, and for a moment, it's like they're back on Arcturus. He half expects Scott to smile right back and call him an idiot.

He doesn't.

"I don't know." Scott murmurs, and he looks up briefly to find Shepard watching him carefully. "I mean-- I don't know that I want to know."

Shepard thinks he understands. At the very least, he tries to.

"Listen, I need to head back to the Tem-- to my ship." Scott takes a step away from the bar, half-turning to face Shepard as he does. "I- If you want to talk, we can-- you can come back with me? I mean, you don't have to--"

Shepard considers his options for a moment. His instinct is to walk away, forget this evening ever happened, and carry on his less-than-ideal life. It would be easier. 

“Alright.” He says instead, sweeping his instinct aside as he pushes off the bar, gesturing for Scott to lead the way. He tells himself it’s for the right reasons, but he hasn’t forgotten the looks Scott had received earlier. Walking back alone was asking for trouble to come calling, and Shepard isn’t sure Scott can deal with Kadara’s particular brand of trouble either.

The relatively fresh air outside Kralla’s is a welcome distraction, even with its sulphur undertones that Scott almost gags at. Shepard resists the urge to laugh, hiding his crooked smile with a nonchalant scratch at his jaw, dodging past the riff-raff clamouring to get into the bar. After that, they keep walking in silence, Kralla’s fading bass slowly and surely disappearing from under their feet and leaving them to the quiet of the Port falling into another desperate night cycle. Shepard hates it when the blackout rolls in, knowing that he’ll be waiting for the gunshots outside his window tonight.

“Can we hurry up?” Shepard murmurs lowly, just out of step behind Scott, who glances over his shoulder. Shepard brushes past him, not stopping.

“What’s the rush?” Scott’s question follows, along with his footsteps starting up again. Shepard feels a little better about being the one in front. It’s insignificant, probably meaningless to Scott, but Shepard knows the chances of finding yourself staring down the barrel of a gun on Kadara are unreasonably high. 

He’d rather take those chances than let Scott deal with them.

“You don’t want to be hanging around here at this time of day.” Shepard says cooly, leading the way into the docking area of the Port. He passes a few workers, throwing a nod to one of them as he stalks by. 

“They won’t provoke the Initiative.” Scott throws back, almost a challenge. Shepard slows as they approach the dock gates, letting Scott step ahead of him again to input his own access code to the console nearby. 

“There’s nothing these people won’t do.” Shepard tells him, and it would seem almost casual if it wasn’t for the telltale bruises on his face, lining his cheek and jaw. Scott’s been sparing glances at them all evening, in-between navigating Reyes’ careful string-pulling and Shepard’s avoidance. 

The gate grinds open, heavy metal scraping the floor and rattling the grates under their feet. Scott steps through, and Shepard follows.

“What about you?” Scott asks him after a few tense moments, heading towards a ship docked at the end of the platform. Shepard’s been taking it in, the sleek lines drawing a familiar memory from the bleak reaches of his mind. It’s almost familiar, but not quite. Scott’s question glitches the image back into insignificance, and Shepard looks at him with a thin, empty smile.

“I do what I have to.” 

The words sit hollow in the air, not quite sinking in. Scott’s expression turns unreadable for a brief moment as he approaches the airlock to the Tempest, and Shepard’s left waiting for him to input another access command. Eventually, the airlock doors slide open, granting them entry.

Immediately, Shepard’s skin goosefleshes at the cold air inside. He’s used to Kadara’s heat, and the Tempest is nothing like it. Shaking it off, he keeps as close to Scott as he dares, suddenly realizing, with an uncomfortable jolt, that he’s the one who’s completely out of place here. 

“Hey, Ryder.” Shepard hears a disjointed voice, and he snaps his gaze over, finding a salarian craning around his pilot’s chair to look. Shepard doesn’t say a word, and his mask is firmly in place.

“Hey, Kallo. Any trouble?” Scott wanders onto the bridge, leaving Shepard standing awkwardly by the airlock door which slides shut behind him.

“No. A few offers for the ship, maybe, but nothing serious.” Kallo sighs, turning back to fiddle with a datapad. Scott chuckles, turning back to Shepard and waving Kallo off as he walks through the main doorway and onto a thin walkway just beyond.

“That’s Kallo, our pilot.” Scott says, once they move out of earshot. “I can’t keep up with him.” 

Shepard manages another thin smile, but nothing else. He’s too busy drinking in the sheer wealth of the ship. Even a few pieces of this tech would see him living out the rest of his days on Kadara in unrivaled comfort.

He stows the thought away, not wanting to follow it entirely.

“Do you, uh-- do you want a drink, or something?” Scott asks, a little awkwardly. Shepard appreciates the gesture regardless.

“I’m good. Thanks.” 

Scott just nods, and they pass through another set of doors. The room that follows is far brighter than Shepard’s used to, and he blinks, the lights almost stinging. There’s a dull throbbing at the base of his skull, threatening to bloom into a full-blown headache. He grits his teeth and looks down, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead as he follows Scott.

“Ryder- oh! Hello.” Shepard’s attention is drawn by another new voice, and he looks up to find an asari ahead of them, datapad in one hand and coffee mug in the other. Shepard manages a covert glance at her uniform, finding the typical medical badges that point to her profession. Ship doctor? Shepard just keeps quiet, letting Scott do the talking.

“Lexi. Everything okay?” Scott delivers the question easily, as if he’s said it plenty of times before. Shepard doesn’t doubt that he has. Scott was always one for getting into trouble with medics.

“Fine, Ryder. Just came to ask you to drop by when you can, but I see we have a visitor.” Lexi responds coolly, voice level as Shepard expects. She’s looking at him, curious, but there’s no end of suspicion written in her steady gaze. 

“Shepard, this is Dr. Lexi T’Perro. She keeps the rabble intact, and in check.” Scott introduces her properly, and Lexi rolls her eyes with a weary sigh directed at Scott. Shepard feels himself relax, just a little, but it’s enough for him to spare a quiet smile and a nod in Lexi’s direction as a greeting of his own.

“A pleasure. Ryder, there’s no hurry, just drop in when you can. I’ll be in my office.” Lexi says to Scott, but she throws a small smile at Shepard in return before she leaves.

There’s a short, sharp bout of silence as they cross the room. Scott stops before the final set of doors to land eyes on Shepard, pulling his attention with ease.

“I know it’s been a while, but I’ve never seen you this quiet.” Scott admits, carefully. Shepard just shrugs. 

“You learn to keep quiet when you’ve been living the way I have.” Shepard says, and he makes sure to keep his words as blank as he can. Scott’s brow furrows, and Shepard almost calls it a show of concern.

Almost.

He’s not quite that optimistic, yet.

“It’s that bad?” Scott asks, swiping the doors open. 

Shepard just shakes his head, stepping through after Scott. “I’m lucky.” 

Scott almost stops dead, half-turning. He gestures at the bruises lining Shepard’s face, and this time, Shepard is even more hard-pressed to ignore how close his concern is to being genuine.

“I wouldn’t call that lucky.” Scott murmurs.

“This was, uh, a new development. Until then, I’ve been pretty lucky.” Shepard relents, divulging the smallest piece of information, and it feels like pulling teeth. He doesn’t want to imagine trying to explain just how much of a mess Kadara is in. Scott just nods awkwardly, dropping the subject as chatter fills the space between them from down below. 

They’re in the cargo bay, Shepard supposes. Not too unlike the Normandy, if he’s willing to let himself relive that memory. He decides that he isn’t, painting his thoughts blank again and dropping his eyes to the floor, following Scott’s footsteps on his peripheral.

The chatter grows louder as they walk further in, and Shepard sees the floor change from solid metal to a grate, ringing as the two of them step on it. He looks up to find Scott swiping over a console, and the grate starts to descend.

“Nice ship.” Shepard says bleakly, stepping off the lift when it hits the ground with a rattle. Scott hums next to him, a vague agreement. The entire conversation has become stilted and awkward for both sides by now, and Shepard feels it keenly, the way it runs in painful jolts under his skin.

After that, Shepard doesn’t bother saying anything else.

Scott slips into casual conversation with two humans lingering by a rover parked in the central bay. Shepard only notes how one of them is a biotic, given the way he sees a curl of blue snap across her fingers when she spares a glance in his direction. He drops his eyes back to the ground, and fiddles idly with his bruised fingers instead. 

“Be careful, Ryder. Exiles are out for blood.” The human male next to the biotic speaks this time, dark eyes roving over Shepard with a scrutiny he’s used to by now. Shepard just spares him a thin, bitter smile. He was most certainly out for blood, but none of their own. 

“Liam, he’s fine. I know him.” Scott quells the growing tension, making to move towards the doorways leading back under the walkway from earlier. Shepard just follows, turning a deaf ear to the comments following them, except for one that stings more than it should.

“Yeah, you think you do.” 

Even Scott falters, stopping awkwardly mid-stride to shoot a piercing glare over his shoulder. Shepard doesn’t even look back. There’s an icy anger sitting in Scott’s blue eyes that tells him it’s not worth it. Not today.

“Liam, drop it.” The woman’s voice starts to sound like reason, lingering in the tense air. 

“I’ll talk to  _ you  _ later, Kosta.” Scott speaks like a commander, and for a moment, Shepard dares to think of how things might have been if they’d stayed. The thought is scattered in seconds as Scott’s hand nudges his elbow, and Scott gestures straight ahead to a set of open doors, revealing what looks like a living space behind. Shepard focuses on that instead of the way his skin burns in the shape of Scott’s hand.

Eventually, they make it to the slightly warmer ambience of the room. Pathfinder’s Quarters, Shepard reads the sign as they step through the doors. He resists the urge to smile, both amused and a little proud that Scott had found his way to such a rank, but he doesn’t linger on it. He doesn’t linger on anything anymore. 

Scott mumbles something to the vast space of the room, and Shepard gets the distinct feeling Scott isn’t talking to him. Shepard just steps in, glad to hear the door sliding shut behind him and leaving the chill atmosphere outside. He knows he looks out of place, shoulders hunched and hands curled into almost-fists, as if he’s expecting to have to fight his way out. It’s then that Scott finally looks at him for longer than a few moments, and Shepard can see the way their old orbit has been irreversibly marred. Everything’s out of place, just out of reach, off-kilter and broken either into dying stars or burnt out husks of things that used to be.

“So.” Scott is the first to speak. Shepard doesn’t know what to say; there’s no clear starting line. There’s only an end, and Shepard doesn’t entirely believe that all ends are beginnings in the way that they should be.

This one certainly hasn’t been.

“Where do you want me to start?” Shepard asks, plain and simple. Scott holds up a hand,  _ wait _ , and gestures at the couch set next to a table covered in gun parts. Shepard doesn’t want to sit; he doesn’t like not being on his feet when he doesn’t have a way out. 

He should trust Scott. He  _ should _ .

He doesn’t.

“Okay.” Shepard says anyway. He sighs, and makes his way to sit down. His motions are awkward, a far cry from the conman he’s used to playing in the Port, but he supposes he’s not trying to con Scott into anything. He doesn’t want to.

“Just… start from where we left off.” Scott suggests, sinking into his seat on the couch at the opposite end, facing Shepard. 

Shepard just quirks an eyebrow, mouth set in a grim line. “That’s a long time to cover.”

Scott shrugs nonchalantly, and his gaze is set in blue on Shepard’s broken gold. 

“Do you know how I- uh--” Shepard clears his throat and tries to begin, but he crashes at the first hurdle, and his heart pounds in his chest. It aches. It  _ aches _ .

“How you died?” Scott fills in the blank for him, and Shepard doesn’t miss how tense Scott’s voice sounds. Shepard nods meekly, gaze drifting along the miniscule threads in the couch. He hears Scott take a ragged breath before continuing.

“No. We were only told you were killed in action. Nobody ever knew how.”

That stings more than Shepard expects. Nobody ever knew how. Shepard looks up at Scott, expecting to find some kind of anger, some kind of accusation in his expression, but it’s just… blank. 

“You know the Normandy was destroyed?” Scott nods. “Then you know enough.”

“Don’t- heh, don’t you  _ dare  _ try and brush me off. Not now, Cade. I spent two years grieving. Two years wondering. The least you can do is… just _ tell me _ .” Scott’s voice is harsh and brittle between them, and Shepard finds himself almost flinching at the sound of his own name. It hurts more in his voice than any other.

“I’m not. I just- I don’t know. That’s the thing, Scott, _ I don’t know _ . I don’t understand what happened. I don’t understand how I’m alive. I don’t understand why I’m  _ here _ .” Shepard retorts just as harshly, his own words spitting out in shades of red that rail against Scott’s blue. They don’t complement anymore, it’s only a jarring contrast for both of them, and both of them know it.

Scott blinks, Shepard’s words stopping him in his tracks. He chews his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, brow furrowing. His eyes never leave Shepard. “You really don’t know?”

Shepard huffs out a sharp, humourless laugh. He leans back, dragging a hand down his face, feeling the scars and the bruises and the lines of a life he’d never chosen. What can he say? Scott’s waiting for an answer he can’t give.

“I was better off dead.” 

“Don’t say that.” Scott snaps, and Shepard looks at him again, hand reaching to rub nervously at his other arm. He keeps quiet, chewing on the inside of his cheek while he watches Scott’s expression change into something he doesn’t have a word for. It’s familiar, but in the wrong way, bringing back memories he doesn’t like to hold.

“What do you want me to say, then?” Shepard eventually speaks, but he’s fully aware of the newly added distance sitting between them now. Everything he’s saying is only pushing Scott further away, and he wonders if holding on is worth it. Right now, it only hurts, pulling and burning the skin over his calloused hands for every word that Scott works out of him.

Scott doesn’t say anything else.

“Listen, I should go. This wasn’t a good idea.” Shepard balks, every instinct lighting up with the same old alarm:  _ get out of there.  _ Survival instinct on Kadara takes precedence over anything else, even potential alliances. Even old friends. 

“No, wait--” Scott sighs, leaning forward a little to recover the lost ground. Shepard’s halfway off the couch and ready to bolt, but something in the way Scott’s looking at him is enough to quell his fear. He slowly sits down, fingers curled tight around the arm of the couch. Scott’s eyes land on his white-knuckle grip, marred by inky bruises spilling over his hand, and he looks back up to meet Shepard’s wide-eyed stare. 

“What the hell are you so scared of?” 

It’s a fair question, Shepard supposes, but it only ricochets off the brittle walls he’s made of his own bones. He feels empty. Hollow. The words don’t sting like they should. He just shrugs, shaking his head and breaking their gaze, feeling like Scott would find every single answer plain as day inside his mind if he stared any longer.

“It’s just  _ me _ .” Scott tries again, and Shepard feels the couch shift. His heart lurches further still when Scott’s warmth is almost in touching distance, and he can see him out of his peripheral even as he stares at the ground. 

“It’s not though, is it?” Shepard says, voice straining as he spares a glance to Scott, running a hand through his hair and digging his nails into his scalp. He’s overwhelmed, out of his depth, in an unfamiliar place. “You’re not Scott. You’re the Pathfinder.” 

When Scott’s about to speak, Shepard just holds up a hand.

“And I’m  _ not  _ Cade. I’m not really Shepard either.” 

Scott actually laughs. Shepard thinks he’s imagining it, at first, but the blue ripples are unmistakable in the way they curl over his skin in floating tendrils, soft and sweet and entirely Scott. 

Maybe he spoke too soon.

“What?” Shepard growls, almost shoving Scott, whose laughing causes him to brush against Shepard’s shoulder for a fleeting moment that Shepard almost wants to hold on to.

“Jesus, Cade. You’re not-- wow. Look, I know, I  _ know  _ how long it’s been, trust me. I didn’t know what to do with myself after you died. I threw myself into whatever shitty work I could find until I somehow made it out the other side, and then I get pinged by my dad for the Andromeda Initiative.” Scott almost blurts everything out, words colliding into each other and forming sounds that Shepard somehow knows how to pick apart. Scott’s always been a rambler. 

“Then you woke up here…?” Shepard interjects, raising an eyebrow as he looks over Scott’s expression again. It’s softer, this time. The hard lines are gone, replaced with careful wonder. 

“And then I woke up here. New start. New life.” Scott nods, sighing softly and glancing down at his own linked hands, fingers pulling at each other absently. Shepard thinks he knows where Scott’s trying to go. 

“I suppose it doesn’t help when your past shows up here, hm?” Shepard can feel himself getting slowed in the mire of old feelings he doesn’t know how to hold anymore. Scott pulls his hands apart and rubs the back of his neck with a quiet laugh that ebbs into another sigh. 

“It doesn’t help, no.” Scott admits, but he looks back up at Shepard in that moment with a kind of hope Shepard didn’t want to see, “But I’m kind of glad it did show up.” 

Shepard really wishes Scott hadn’t said that. He swallows audibly and looks away again, eyes landing on the door. He feels Scott move behind him, and his attention is drawn away when he sees Scott walking into his line of sight. He glances over at Shepard with a quiet, sad smile.

“You want to go. I won’t keep you.” Scott tells him, and Shepard finds himself on his feet without thinking. He hates that the look on Scott’s face is keeping him here.

“I-...It was good to see you.” Shepard admits candidly, and Scott’s expression brightens for a moment. “Listen, I’m always around the Port. I’ll give you my frequency.” Shepard brings up his omnitool, tapping into his comms and relaying the frequency to Scott’s own omnitool across the room.

“Thanks. I’ll comm you when I’m back on Kadara." 

“Anytime, Scott. 


	4. Chapter 4

Waking up every morning for the next few days isn't as painful as Shepard expects. He still feels the familiar ache of a bad night's sleep sitting over his shoulders and his ribs, and his throat is still dry and scratchy when he breathes in, but... he feels lighter. He breathes easier.

It's enough, knowing the Pathfinder isn’t just somebody else he doesn’t care about.

He pushes himself up off the mattress, bare feet hitting the cold floor as he pulls himself out of bed with a yawn that pulls every muscle just a little too tight. Padding across the room, he rolls his shoulders and heads out into the apartment, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His datapad is beeping in the kitchen, and it's almost becoming a ritual to wake up to the sound. Sighing, Shepard walks into the kitchen and swipes at the holo to unlock it.

 

_ UNREAD MESSAGES [3] _

 

Frowning, Shepard blinks as the digit blurs into shape. Three isn't a normal number. As much as Reyes is prone to double messaging, he usually gives up and starts calling if Shepard isn't answering. Shepard pulls a mostly-clean mug from the dish rack, setting it under the coffee machine before flipping the switch. He returns to the datapad and opens the first message.

 

_ Incoming message -- Anubis; UNREAD _

 

_ \-- _

 

_ Morning! I won't ask what you got up to last night, but I need to talk to you r.e our new friend. Or, my new friend, rather. _

_ Aetius dropped by the Collective hideout this morning. Don't want to ask how he found it, but seeing as you clearly know where it is; meet me here in a hour. _

 

_ Anubis _

_ \-- _

 

_ RECEIVED 08:39 GST _

 

Shepard smirks to himself as he reads the message, a little pleased at how easily Reyes' gilded cage could be rattled if he tried hard enough. He makes a mental note that Aetius really needs a pay raise after the work he's pulled.

The whistle of the coffee machine alerts Shepard to his makeshift breakfast, and he swipes the mug eagerly, hands curling around the warmth as he blows gently across the rising steam. Deeming it too hot for the moment, Shepard turns his attention back to the datapad, and scrolls to the next message.

 

_ Incoming message -- UNKNOWN; UNREAD _

 

_ \-- _

 

_ Osiris, _

 

_ The front-line Disciples have been kitted out with those mods you knocked up for us. Even Kana can land a shot with that stabilizer -- appreciate it. _

_ Omega Squad reported in, they're being held up at the border. Wouldn't ask, but this is looking ugly - could you drop by? They have a few good parts with them. _

_ Got some info from a Collective dead-drop. Got caught, but we traded non-compromising info. Eye for an eye, no? _

 

_ Nuix _

 

_ \-- _

 

_ RECEIVED 08:23 GST _

 

Shepard hums his approval, taking a sip of scalding coffee to wash away the mild guilt he might be feeling. His crew have been nothing but loyal, and it pulls an uncomfortable knot in his gut when he thinks how little it took. A few promises of food, sparse shelter, information, protection. Shepard had walked onto the Port with half an arms locker, stolen from the Nexus, and he'd dared people to try and take it, flashing teeth in the shape of a liar's smile. They'd all run out of luck, and he'd walked away with a target painted on his back the moment those people joined the Outcasts instead.

Nobody touched Shepard for months. Besides the legend that lay in broken fragments at his feet, he was one of the few on the Port with the means to take down the kett presence and also offer what most couldn't: security. That was worth its weight in credits.

Shepard had the luxury of choice. He could turn his back on people to save his own skin, or he could offer one hand and arm the other.

He may be artificial, he may be made of metal and circuits and code; an unholy amalgamation of human flesh and synthetic creation, but Shepard liked to think he still had a human heart. He offered his hand. He hasn't regretted it since.

As Kadara grew, so did the underground. Every network expanded with each shuttle arrival, bringing remnants of the Uprising, or souls who'd searched elsewhere and found nothing. Kadara was only ever united in wiping out the kett presence; after that, it was every man for himself. Shepard had retreated just enough to keep his crew safe, to keep his promise to them, but he never denied the fact he was waiting for an opportunity.

First, the Outcasts came out from Kadara's ugly constructs, laying down a self-imposed law under Sloane Kelly's iron-fist rule.

Then, the Collective sunk their teeth into the bones of Kadara and refused to let go. They're hard to see, even now at the height of their number, and Shepard knows full well how far they're willing to go for the Charlatan they know nothing about.

After that, the Disciples struck, hard and fast; guerrilla hit and run tactics on Outcast strongholds and Collective hideouts. Every single kill was purposeful, nothing wasted, and every action held the same mark, the same clinical precision that belonged to an N7. They call him Osiris, but even the scorched earth of the Badlands carries whispers of a shepherd behind the people.

The holo of the datapad almost flickers into standby by the time Shepard stops drifting in thought, and he swipes a hand across the screen to keep it active. The last message isn’t one he’s expecting to see at all.

 

_ Incoming message -- UNKNOWN; UNREAD _

 

_ \-- _

 

_ Cade, _

 

_ Hey. I hope this thing works - Reyes gave me this contact, I’m not on the port so I can’t reach your frequency yet.  _

_ Look, I just wanted to say… sorry, for the other day. For making you feel uncomfortable. I wasn’t thinking, I just wanted an answer. I’ve had to let a lot of things go without reason lately, and I didn’t want you to be the next in a long line. We’ve been through too much for me to do that. _

_ Anyway, that’s all. That’s all I wanted to say. _

_ And, maybe, I kind of wanted to say that despite it all, it’s good seeing you again. _

 

_ Scott _

 

_ \-- _

 

_ RECEIVED 08:17 GST _

 

Shepard smiles. The motion hurts, almost, pulling at scarred skin in a way he’s not used to, but it feels good. He starts formulating a reply, but the holographic time display catches his attention before he can put any words down. Reyes is expecting him, and after Aetius’ latest exploits, Shepard isn’t willing to test the Charlatan’s patience. 

Downing the rest of his coffee, he slams the mug in the sink and stalks back into his bedroom, grabbing the cleanest clothes he can find. A pair of oil stained and frayed jeans isn’t exactly what he’d call meeting Reyes’ standards, but Shepard isn’t about to start caring now. He pulls a plain grey shirt on, and grabs his workboots from the side of the mattress, heading out into the living area as he mentally counts off a list of things he needs. 

Spotting his rucksack sitting next to a pile of crates, Shepard throws his datapad in along with his lighter and pack of cigarettes. He spares a glance out of his apartment window, finding Kadara’s pale morning glaring back at him. Today would be just like any other day, scorching hot and arid, but Shepard can’t shake the feeling that sunburn would be the least of his worries. He needs to drop by the engineering bay under Tartarus this morning anyway, but he makes a note to pick up his armoured jacket while he’s there. He might know where the Charlatan’s hiding, but there’s no telling what he’s walking into, exactly.

Throwing the rucksack on, he ignores his aching shoulders and double checks the apartment for anything he’s missed. Once he’s satisfied, Shepard makes his way out of the door, stopping to lock and double lock, glancing up and down the corridor before heading out into another Kadara morning.

It should be like any other, but this one seems much brighter, somehow.

It doesn’t take long for Shepard to work his way through the Port to the slums, the fresh hit of sulphur rolling over him as he descends into the heart of the mountain. Stepping out of the elevator, he avoids the sulphur pools in his usual path, and heads under Tartarus and into the relative shade of his engineering bay. 

The bay is deadly quiet, as usual, and the echo of the gate dragging open is the only sound accompanying his heavy footsteps into the compound. Shepard spares a habitual glance over his shoulder as he slams the gate shut. He turns his attention to the storage crates near the back of the cave, and walks over. Pulling one open, he rifles through the amassed parts to find his jacket, and he pulls it on. The heavy weight against his skin is a comfort, even if he knows the material won’t stop a bullet. It’s better than nothing, and it’s the closest thing to armour he owns anymore.

Standing, Shepard kicks the crate back, his biotics curling over skin in deep, dark blue, jostling the crate back to the wall where it hits the ground with a thud. He draws in a deep breath, ozone rolling around him in subtle waves, the air snapping as his biotics ebb away again. Shepard knows he can’t handle anything drastic, but a well placed pull could draw the line between him making it back to the Port in one piece, or ending up in rival chains. He’d have to make do.

Next on his list for the day is dropping by the border guard. Shepard almost feels like leaving Omega Squad in the lurch for a while, just long enough to think about not getting caught next time, but he decides he’s got enough to deal with today without their squabbling. Sighing, Shepard pulls his rucksack back on over his jacket, ducking his head and turning towards the gate again. He locks up and leaves, feet taking him through the underbelly of the slums and over to the makeshift guard station.

“Oh, look alive.” 

Shepard’s head snaps to the direction of the voice, a low rumble that almost grates across the floor. Shepard hides his grimace and turns to face the gatekeeper, a krogan sat idly at a desk like some deadbeat cop at his wits end. Shepard doesn’t exactly blame him either; the worst of the worst have to come through this gate, and he’s the one who’s left to deal with them. 

Not a job he envies.

“‘Bout time you got here, was startin’ to think yer little rabble over there would be more trouble than they’re worth.” The gatekeeper grumbles, jerking his head roughly in the direction of Omega Squad, bunched up in the corner, sitting with their backs to the wall and glaring at the gatekeeper with matching expressions of distaste. 

“Right. Yeah. How much is it this time?” Shepard doesn’t bother with small talk, pulling up his omnitool ready to transfer the bounty. The gatekeeper rumbles a low, feral laugh as his lips pull into a sly grin.

“Fifty creds for a head. By my count, there’s five of ‘em.” 

Shepard groans. Two hundred and fifty creds down and his day hadn’t even started. 

“Hah, no way. One-fifty, and you’ll keep your shuttle in working condition.” Shepard stalks over to the desk, stopping just short to match the krogan’s steely glare. 

“Is that a threat?” he spits, sitting forward, claws scraping over the surface of the desk in-between them. Shepard watches carefully, eyeing his every move with cold calculation.

“It’s a negotiation. And I’d think about it if I were you.” Shepard throws back, and he would seem overly casual if it weren’t for the edge to his stance, the hard, square line of his shoulders racked with tension. The gatekeeper only sighs and sits back, putting distance between them again. He waves a claw in Shepard’s direction, a gesture to put the credits through and piss off. 

Shepard swipes at his omnitool, pushing the transfer through with another sharp glance to the gatekeeper before he leaves, Omega Squad in tow.

Nobody says anything until they’re a good few feet away from the gate, heading out into the Badlands. The first person to try and break the awkward tension is an unassuming looking man, no older than twenty-five, and hauling a sniper on his back that looks far too cumbersome to be of any use.

“Uh, so, about that--”

“I don’t  _ want  _ to know. Nobody got hurt?” Shepard shuts the man down immediately, but his tone is far from harsh. 

“Nah. Rorie took a few scrapes ‘cause she didn’t see a raider flanking her.” The man gestures to the smallest human in the ragtag group, a fresh cut on her cheek from what looks like the fine edge of a blade, rather than a bullet graze. 

“Yeah,  _ thanks _ , Duran. What happened to you keeping an eye out?” Rorie snorts harshly, shoving the taller man next to her. Duran just snickers, hoisting his sniper into a more comfortable position.

Shepard sighs, not quite exasperated, but toeing the line. These guys were plenty capable of holding their own -- it’s why he trained them -- but sometimes, just…  _ sometimes _ , they made him question his judgement. He spares Duran a withering look, and Duran quickly shuts up, expression smoothing into a sheepish smile instead.

“Kaj? Isiah?” Shepard turns his attention to the angara and the third human looming behind them, skittish and nervous. Kaj pulls at his rofjiin, shrugging loosely as the thin line of his mouth quirks into a quiet smile.

“It was a good fight!” Kaj chuckles lowly, and Isiah only grumbles next to him. A turian nudges Kaj in the side with a pointed elbow, mandibles flickering along with her brow-plates, shifting into an expression that Shepard could almost call unimpressed.

“Alright, judging by Cal’s face, that could’ve gone a lot better on the whole.” Shepard restores some vague sense of order, and as soon as his words take on the shape of command, the squad is at attention, their laughter ebbing away and replaced with stoic silence better befitting an elite spec-ops squad. Shepard knows full well that they’re far from that. He knows that every time he sends them out, he’s half-expecting them to come back, one less. They are a pretense, at best, and a highly efficient one if he’s allowing himself to be honest. They dodge the hits, they give as good as they get, and they do it while avoiding Sloane’s iron boot. 

But as with everything else on Kadara, Shepard supposes, the key is in how you deliver the lie.

“Take a few days, get that scratch cleaned up-” Shepard directs his glance at Rorie, who nods quickly before Shepard moves on, “And keep an ear to the ground. Things are getting tight around here, Outcasts have doubled up on Port patrols and Sloane’s making her move. Don’t do anything stupid.” 

Shepard receives a host of varying agreements, and they part ways as Shepard heads for a shuttle bay just outside of the slum perimeter. He turns his attention back to his meeting with Reyes as he climbs into the pilot seat, kicking the shuttle into motion with familiar gestures over the console arrangement in front of him. 

The ride to the hideout isn’t long. He sets the shuttle down just outside of Draullir, cuts the engine and pulls himself out of the seat to cross the shuttle, eyes landing on a crate tucked near the storage compartments. Kneeling, Shepard springs the lid off the crate, running a careful hand over the gun parts encased inside. He pulls out the parts he needs and slams the crate shut again, nudging it back against the shuttle wall as he assembles a rifle, moving to set it down on a makeshift bench. Once the final mods are in place, he picks it up and tests its balance, finding a small measure of comfort in the way it fits him like nothing else. Shepard’s never been anything less than a fighter, and he knows walking into that base unarmed would leave him panicking before he could say a word.

Shepard exhales sharply, relaxing his stance and stepping out of the shuttle into the warm, muggy air. He makes sure to secure the vehicle before he starts picking his way over the rough terrain to the entrance of the Collective hideout. It’s not exactly a hard location to find, Shepard muses, but if anyone was to advocate for hiding in plain sight, it would be Reyes.

Finding his way to the entrance, Shepard drops into the cool shade, glad of a reprieve from the morning sun. He skirts the sulphur pools and descends deeper into the cavern. He snickers to himself when he reaches the door to the Collective base after a few missed turns and more dead ends than he’d like. A shady hideout for a shady bastard, Shepard supposes, and he draws the attention of the guard standing by the door with a casual grin on his part, leaning his rifle against his shoulder when he draws to a stop. The guard is on edge right away, fingers curling around her pistol in its holster as her eyes narrow over Shepard’s looming frame.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t come here uninvited.” Shepard drawls, almost mocking, and the guard just huffs. The blinking light of the guard’s omnitool fills the space for a few moments while she mutters into her comm, and then she drops her arm with a grunt. 

“He’ll meet you inside.” she mumbles, unlocking the door. Shepard nods and steps through, not missing the way she follows him with a beady glare until the door slides shut.

Once he’s in, Shepard finds himself a little caught off-guard by the sheer expanse of the place. It’s not the ramshackle collection of shelters he’d been expecting, and he allows himself a careful once-over of the stacked pre-fabs set by the furthest wall of the cave. He can see people flitting in and out, stringing paths across this miniscule city in a way that made them people, and not just collateral damage.

For a moment, Shepard wonders how much Reyes has been holding out on him. 

Only for a moment, until the man himself appears, wearing his usual crooked smile and shrewd glare, walking towards Shepard with open arms. Shepard just rolls his eyes and looks straight past the charade.

“Reyes.” he greets the smuggler with a sigh, watching as the man drops his arms with a low, throaty chuckle. He’s gloating, and Shepard doesn’t want to get into specifics. 

“Good night?” Reyes flashes a wolfish grin Shepard’s way before nodding his head towards a central building behind them. Shepard shakes his head, and sets to follow Reyes, his gait a little less enthusiastic.

“Not what you think.” Shepard sighs, crossing a string of sulphur pools. Reyes only glances back over his shoulder at him, clearly entertained, but he doesn’t push it any further as they step into the prefab. Reyes waits for Shepard to walk in before he shuts the door behind them, swiping his omnitool over the holographic lock and flipping it red. 

Being locked in a room with the Charlatan hadn’t been on today’s agenda. Shepard frowns, eyes narrowing as he watches Reyes move over to a command console set up in the centre of the room, information flickering over an array of holos. There’s vidscreens, transmissions, encrypted messages being decoded everywhere Shepard looks, and the extent of the Charlatan’s reach only serves to curl a cold hand around his thudding heart. He tries not to call it fear, but Shepard knows that’s a lie.

“Well, whatever he is, he’s  _ useful _ .” Reyes hums, a gloved hand hovering over one particular set of information. Shepard squints, trying to make out the rapid sequence of digits and letters flashing across the holo. The codes make no sense to him, but when he reads between the lines stretching out between them, it’s clear that Reyes has a plan. 

“What are you planning?” Shepard asks him outright, stepping closer to the console where he sets his rifle down against the side. 

Reyes looks up, a flash of gold between the holoscreens, lips quirked into a dangerous smile. “You and I both know the little tricks Sloane is playing on the people. Oblivion isn’t just a drug - it’s a tool. The Outcast patrols aren’t there for protection - they’re a reminder. We aren’t doing this for fun, Shepard.”

“Really? Because you seem to be under the impression that this is a game.” Shepard quirks an eyebrow, mouth falling into a grim line. Reyes falters, brow knitting as he strings together a counter. He licks his lips slowly, a tic for when he’s thinking, and Shepard folds his arms tight across his chest, feet planted apart and steady in his ground.

“Not a game.” Reyes exhales sharply, “A strategy. A tactic. You move a piece on the board and wait for your opponent to retaliate.”

“People aren’t mindless pawns,  _ Shena _ .” Shepard scowls, the line of his mouth quirking down as he lands a steely glare on Reyes across the command console. The name stings, clearly, as Reyes’ eyes narrow and he averts his gaze to look more interested in the data at his fingertips instead of Shepard.

After a moment, Reyes slides a deft finger across the holo he’s focused on, sending the information to Shepard’s side of the console. Shepard looks down at the dim-lit code, reading intently. Navpoints, snippets of information, location photos, all packed into a dossier. Glancing up, Shepard searches Reyes’ expression for any hint of explanation, but Reyes only stares right back.

“ _ Pathfinder _ . It’s the job description, hm?” 

Shepard drops his arms, fingers uncurling at his sides. He feels cold, and it’s jarringly uncomfortable in the damp heat of the cavern, even in this room. A part of him is pushing him to say  _ hell no _ , and turn his back. To find his own way off this port, and find his own way to help Scott if he even could. 

The room fills with static, the kind that clouds even the sharpest mind, and Shepard stops thinking. 

And it’s with a bone-chilling certainty that Shepard understands the voice of reason has long since grown silent.

Reyes’ plan clicks into place, falling in-between gaps in the static to land along fragmented lines. Eventually, they outline a direction, a point on the horizon that Shepard has to set his compass to if he wants to keep up with the Charlatan. Grinding his teeth, Shepard finds his words.

“Give him the information and he ends up right where you want him. That much evidence stacked against Sloane, from three different perspectives…” 

Reyes smiles, slow and wicked.

“Checkmate?” 

Shepard returns it, cold and clear.

“Checkmate.” 

* * *

A few hours later, Shepard finds himself in Tartarus’ back room with Reyes poking a half-empty glass around the table. Waiting for a call from the Pathfinder had turned the room sour, and the only thing that fills the empty spaces in between is the thudding music humming distantly through the walls of the place. 

Reyes sighs heavily, pushing the glass away from him and sitting back to fold his arms across his middle. Shepard spares him a weary look, and Reyes just rolls his eyes.

“Not a very punctual man, this Pathfinder.” he quips, a lame attempt at breaking the terse atmosphere. Shepard snorts, finding the smallest glimmer of amusement in there somewhere. 

“No, he isn’t.” Shepard admits then, almost smiling. Reyes watches him carefully, and he can feel the way his eyes bore into him. He’s waiting for something. Shepard doesn’t have the patience to entertain him much longer.

“Spit it out.” Shepard raises an eyebrow at Reyes, propping his head up on his arm as he leans over the table. Reyes opens his mouth, hesitates, but then the words fall out regardless.

“Were you… well, I got the impression there’s history there, if you don’t mind the observation.” Reyes turns his question into a careful statement, smoothing over the roughness of his words. Shepard knows what he’s getting at, and he swallows, throat dry. Giving Reyes personal ammo isn’t something Shepard would usually consider, but the look on the man’s face is… strangely candid. There’s no mask on display, no purposeful expression, no distraction. Just a plain and simple question.

Shepard taps his fingers on the table in a staccato rhythm, finding the shape of his words somewhere in the tremors. 

“History? Sure.” Shepard’s expression turns coy, lips quirking with amusement. He decides that if he’s going to be waiting, he may as well enjoy it. 

Reyes shoots him a pointed glance, huffing.

“You know what I mean.” 

Shepard changes the rhythm of his fingers on the tabletop, slowing down. 

“Do i?” He challenges, and Reyes laps it up.  _ Too easy. _

“Exes are messy when they get involved with business.” Reyes shrugged, cocking his head as he regards Shepard, eyes narrowed slightly, “Remember Zia?” 

Shepard pulls his hand from the table to scratch at his jaw, brow furrowing as his expression deepens into thought. He’s seen Reyes talking his way into plenty of corners, but Zia rings a bell for a reason he can’t quite place. He harbours a guess, anyway.

“The snappy redhead?” 

Reyes chuckles at that, and Shepard supposes he’s hit the nail on the head. 

“Ah, yes. That’s one way to describe her.” Reyes rubs at his temple with the back of his hand, “She turned her attention back to shifting cargo. Or, pilfering it, rather. That’s all dealt with now, but...” 

Shepard sits up, arms folding on the table loosely while he considers Reyes’ implications. He’s not quite sure where this conversation is heading, and that bothers him more than he’d like to admit.

“Point being?” Shepard delivers the question bluntly. 

Reyes purses his lips for a second, musing. “They usually end up more trouble than they’re worth.” 

Shepard isn’t quite sure how to take that. Torn between mild offense and bitter amusement, he schools his expression to neutrality and fiddles with his fingers idly.

“I don’t think Scott will be a problem.” 

Reyes’ expression changes in an instant, a glint to his eyes betraying his quiet satisfaction.

“Ah! So you admit it, then? There  _ was  _ something.” 

Shepard just sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course. Of  _ course _ , the Charlatan would play him like a fiddle.

“Well, we never  _ admitted  _ it.” Shepard says, as if that makes any difference. Reyes just smiles smugly, prompting Shepard to scowl like a petulant child right back at him. “Ugh. Just… just  _ shut up _ .” 

The silence that follows is far more comfortable than before, worn into shape by careful give and take from both sides. Neither man is willing to step out from behind a mask that’s kept them alive all this time. 

Still, Shepard supposes, there’s progress now.

His thoughts are disrupted by a shrill ring across the room. Reyes pushes out from his seat, getting up to answer the call. It takes a few moments, distance and lag accounted for, but eventually a holo takes Scott’s familiar shape in the room. 

“Reyes.” Scott greets lamely, not sounding particularly invested. Shepard notices the way he’s standing off-kilter, weight to one side. Is he injured? He frowns, but says nothing as he stands and makes to join the conversation. Scott’s gaze turns to Shepard when he registers as a holo contact next to Reyes.

“How’s my favourite Pathfinder?” Reyes asks smoothly, guiding the conversation as Shepard expects. Scott lingers on Shepard for a moment before he turns to respond to Reyes, folding his arms tight.

“Just enjoying another day of what Heleus has to offer.” Scott sighs, “Why?” 

“Thought we could grab a drink.” Reyes chuckles, turning to gauge Shepard’s reaction. Shepard just rubs the back of his neck and mutters something under his breath. It’s enough for Reyes to plaster a smirk on his face when he looks at Scott again. Scott, understandably, looks somewhere between bewildered and flustered, and even Shepard cracks a crooked grin at the sight.

“Sloane’s holding a get-together for the locals. I managed to snag an invite. Care to be my plus one?” Reyes clarifies, head tilting slightly as he waits for a reply. Scott just huffs, nodding in Shepard’s direction.

“Why not go with him?” Scott asks, and Shepard spots the telltale crinkle at the bridge of Scott’s nose. He’s teasing, and he’s waiting for Reyes to take the bait. Shepard just chuckles, shaking his head as he glances over to Reyes next to him. 

“Because he’s a troublemaker.” Reyes offers, eyebrow quirking. Scott snorts, face lighting up with amusement. 

“I’ll give you that.” Scott throws back easily, sparing a crooked smile at Shepard before he comes up with a final answer. “Alright. I’m not going to turn down free drinks.” 

Reyes brightens at that. “Especially from Sloane’s reserve. I’ll meet you outside the Outcast HQ.” 

Scott nods, scratching at his ear absently while the conversation dwindles out. “You got it. “

“I’ll be around the port. Don’t do anything I would do.” Shepard throws in, and he feels a little better for seeing Scott’s smile in response. The call ends in static as Scott disconnects, and Shepard steps away from the console, feet already taking him to the door.

“Hey.” Reyes calls his attention back, and Shepard half-turns to look. “Thank you.” 

Shepard blinks in surprise, Reyes words hitting him no better than a well-placed punch. “What for?” 

“I was expecting you to draw the line with Ryder.” Reyes admits, heaving out a heavy breath, leaning his hip against the console to rest a hand on the standby holoscreen. 

“And what would any of us gain from that?” Shepard responds wearily, as if this is a thought he’s well and truly chewed over beyond sense or rationality. He isn’t going to deny that it feels wrong to play Scott, of all people. He also isn’t going to deny that it’s a highly profitable scenario. 

Kadara has a wicked way of skewing a moral compass just slightly out of tune. 

“And here I was, thinking you were an honorable commander.” Reyes makes a pointed statement, and Shepard feels it like a pang settling between his ribs. 

“And here I am, a changed man.” Shepard chuckles grimly, shrugging loosely and feigning nonchalance as he turns to leave. He hears Reyes’ low laughter join his own, followed by a painfully honest observation on Reyes’ behalf. 

“We both know you haven’t changed a bit.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Shepard puffs out a roll of smoke, gold eyes drawing careful lines over his view of Kadara Port from the perch he’s found, squared away near the top of the city. The sun is sinking slowly beyond the mountain, but it’s low enough to cast long, pink rays over the dirty neon alleyways. The heat haze drifts upwards, curling uncomfortably over Shepard’s skin where he sits, legs dangling over the edge of a dingy prefab, boarded up and used as a cargo stash. Shepard spares a glance at the pack of cigarettes at his side, lifted straight out of said stash on his way up. He smiles to himself and takes another drag, the acrid burn bringing him another brief respite from the worries rattling through his mind.

Shepard likes Kadara like this. Quiet. Personal. From up here, it’s easy to ignore the rampant problems that lurk down below in the side streets and alleyways. It’s calm; a necessary port in a brutal, ugly storm. For the first time in a long while, Shepard feels almost peaceful.

The buzz of his omnitool alerts Shepard to an incoming call, and he swipes at it, cigarette held carefully between two fingers. The holo flickers into life, and Reyes’ sharp voice sounds immediately after.

“Shepard!”

Reyes also sounds decidedly less than sober. 

“Reyes. Having fun?” Shepard sighs, stubbing out his cigarette on the roof before flicking the butt down the street below. He hears Reyes’ static laugh crackling through the comm. 

“You could say that. We plan on relieving Sloane of her finest whiskey; care to join us?” Reyes’ laughter ebbs into honeyed words, and Shepard is hard pressed to say no. Sighing, he gets to his feet and edges his way along the roof.

“Where to?” Shepard asks, bringing his omnitool up so he can see Reyes better. 

“Just outside the Outcast HQ. Guards are inside, and we didn’t see any patrols.” Reyes tells him, and Shepard finds that hard to believe. He just nods, jumping down to a lower level and landing lightly on his feet, using the momentum to push himself forward into a run.

“If you drink that shit without me, you’re a dead man.” Shepard warns Reyes with a smirk before he shuts the call down, omnitool flickering out as he disappears down a side street

Navigating the Port is second nature by now, and Shepard finds himself outside the Outcast HQ in no time. He hears Reyes before he sees him, dipping in through an open doorway where the air grows cooler inside. Scott’s there with his back to him, laughing, watching as Reyes scales a stack of crates to reach for something.

“You really are a master of subtlety.” Shepard quips easily as he walks in, smirking as Reyes starts and shoots a sharp glance over his shoulder. His expression smooths out when he realises who’s speaking, and he jumps down with a chuckle.

“There’s nothing subtle about stealing from the Queen of Kadara, of course.” Reyes replies, sarcasm lacing every word, “But now that you’re here, we could use your height advantage.”

Shepard just snorts, stalking past Reyes and sparing a quiet smile Scott’s way before he moves over to the crates. “Which crate?” 

Reyes points, gesturing to the top of the stack. Shepard hauls himself up nimbly, easily swiping the lid off to root around the contents until he lands on the familiar shape of a bottle. Pulling it out, he takes a glance at the label.

“Mount Milgrom?” Shepard whistles lowly, looking at Reyes, who shoots him a grin in return. 

“The only bottle in Andromeda.” he adds, and Scott looks between the both of them, eyebrows raised in thinly-veiled surprise.

“Wow.” Scott chuckles quietly, “You really don’t like Sloane, huh?” 

Reyes shrugs nonchalantly, taking the bottle from Shepard after the man jumps back down.

“Ah, to me, Sloane is simply the wrong person in the wrong place. To him?” Reyes nods in Shepard’s direction as he answers Scott, “Let’s just say I was lucky to get out of the uprising the way I did.” 

Scott’s lips part on a question that never sounds, because Shepard interrupts, calm and quiet.

“She stepped on a lot of people to get here,” Shepard sighs, rubbing his arm for a moment before sweeping the conversation aside, “Come on. Whiskey’s waiting.” 

* * *

The sun is clinging onto the skyline with the last of its pale light, spilling over the rooftops and engulfing the three men in a rare sense of calm. The light glints off the whiskey bottle as they pass it between them with quiet murmurs, uncertain questions; each of them navigating the realities of learning how to be normal again, if only for a moment.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Reyes hums quietly, “I sometimes forget.” 

Shepard understands his meaning. Kadara’s only ever nice to look at from the outside, and given how much time they spend underground these days, it’s a rare moment when they  _ can _ .

Reyes turns to Scott, taking the bottle from his outstretched hand. Shepard sits on Scott’s other side, legs swinging loosely. He turns his attention from Kadara’s skyline to the conversation next to him, finding Reyes looking curiously at Scott.

“Is Andromeda everything you hoped it would be?” Reyes asks then, and Shepard won’t deny that he’s curious to know the answer to that one too. Scott hadn’t seen the worst Kadara had to offer, not yet, and Shepard knows the extent of corruption doesn’t just run along the surface of one city. 

Elaaden. New Tuchanka. The Resistance fronts on Voeld and Havarl. Hell, even the Nexus -- everywhere had its own inner-workings, its own set of rules that allowed each post to function as a network. That network kept them alive when the Nexus and the Initiative couldn’t, and Shepard holds that close to heart.

And he thinks Reyes does too.

“I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but…” Scott starts his answer quietly, and Shepard notices the way his fingers curl tightly around each other in repetitive motions. An old habit. He’s afraid. “This is more than I signed up for.” 

Shepard isn’t expecting that answer. Curiosity piqued, he takes the bottle from Reyes and sits back.

“I don’t see how anyone could be prepared for this.” Shepard tells them honestly, taking a sip of the expensive liquor. He enjoys the malt flavour, the slight sweetness to the liquid as it rolls over his tongue. Sparing a glance at the bottle, he appreciates Reyes’ insider knowledge with a satisfied hum.

“You didn’t have a choice.” Scott says next to him, and Shepard looks up at him, eyes soft in the light.

“No. I didn’t.” Shepard smiles, but it’s skewed with a bitterness he has no way of hiding, “But then, I never really had much choice back home either. Same bullshit, different galaxy.” 

Reyes laughs at that, a rich, warm roll of noise that sits easily in the evening sun. “It really is the same old shit.” 

Scott just huffs, looking between them again. “Then why are  _ you  _ doing the same old stuff? You used to work together back home, so why do it here? The same damn job, too. Maybe with less murder, back then.” 

Shepard grins wolfishly, passing the bottle along to Reyes after Scott declines another sip. Reyes takes it with a matching smile, and Scott almost looks like he regrets asking.

“I came here to  _ be  _ someone.” Reyes says candidly, taking a sip from the bottle in between sentences, “And you need to rely on other people for that.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Scott shifts back so he can see them both. “People like Cade?” 

Reyes shrugs, but there’s a glint of amusement to his eyes, the slight crinkle at the edges giving him away. “Sometimes. I must say it’s nice to know he has a name, after all.”

Shepard laughs, low and quiet, shooting a joking wink in Reyes’ direction. “I have my secrets.” 

“Wait, nobody knows your name?” Scott throws at Shepard, eyes wide. Shepard just shakes his head, laughter subsiding into the same smile from before.

“Oh, sure, they know  _ Shepard _ .” he cocks his head, amused, “But not  _ my  _ name. I don’t really think about it, it’s just… I’ve always been Shepard first. It gets stuck in your head after a while.” 

Scott nods slowly, understanding dawning in his expression. He snags the bottle from Reyes and takes a few sips in total silence, and for a moment Shepard wonders if he’s said the wrong thing.

“You really are two of a kind, huh?” Scott muses after a moment longer, just before the silence grows uncomfortable.

“Of a good or a bad kind?” Reyes nudges Scott’s knee, gesturing for him to pass the bottle back. Scott smirks, leaning forward to press the bottle into Reyes’ outstretched hand before he speaks.

“What is it that people say?” Scott sits up, scratching his chin absently while the sun catches his eyes in kaleidoscopic blue, “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” 

Shepard considers the words longer than he means to. It’s just a saying, he knows that, but it’s refusing to leave the edges of his thoughts. Scott knew him. Scott  _ knows  _ him. Shepard hasn’t changed a bit; Reyes was right. And he knows Scott’s right too -- it’s one thing to know that people do bad things to survive, and it’s another thing entirely to understand why.

“Well, you aren’t wrong.” Reyes sighs, saluting the two of them with the whiskey before he takes a final sip and sets the empty bottle down. He spares one last skywards glance, basking in the last of the rays before they dip beyond the line and send the Port into twilight. Reyes gets to his feet then, slowly and a little unsteady as the alcohol leaves him tripping over invisible wires. 

“Leaving so soon?” Shepard looks up at Reyes, senses numbed slightly by the dull buzz from the whiskey. Reyes just nods, sparing a weary smile at both Scott and Shepard.

“Some of us have work to do.”

“Ouch. I felt that.” Shepard snorts, rolling his eyes at the dig. “Alright. I’ll spot you a comm tomorrow.” 

“Goodnight, Reyes, and thanks for the invite. One hell of a party.” Scott says, voice pitching with a quiet amusement that Reyes doesn’t miss.

“I think the afterparty was a little better, hm?” Reyes chuckles, but nods in Scott’s direction. “Goodnight.” 

Reyes disappears into the red-orange light, shadows growing longer and filling the streets with well-kept secrets, stolen from lurking, careless voices. Shepard lets the silence fill the space Reyes leaves, turning his face to the sun until he hears a rustle of fabric over metal as Scott shifts just a little closer. Shepard smiles, despite the way his heart starts hammering. 

“Cade.” Scott uses his name, and Shepard knows it’s deliberate, this time. It means something that it didn’t before. Scott likes it, and Shepard can tell by the way his voice lowers with intent. Shepard almost gets to his feet at that moment, a fleeting moment of fear running like ice under his skin, but he wills himself to stay with fingers curling around the edge of the prefab roof. 

He isn’t sure what he’s afraid of. 

Having Scott around like this is more than he’d ever dared to hope for the moment he’d set eyes on him in Kralla’s. Two galaxies, two different lifetimes, and the same people end up sitting in the same place, at the same time, wanting the same thing. 

Shepard isn’t much of a believer, but this? It’s almost enough to convince him.

Turning, Shepard finds himself staring straight back into blue, and he doesn’t know where to go. 

“Stop me if I’m being stupid.” Scott barely whispers, and Shepard feels the warmth of Scott’s fingers curling around his own, fixed to the prefab roof in lieu of an anchor. He lets Scott pry his fingers away, one by one, until they’re held securely in Scott’s hand and he turns his attention back to Shepard.

“I always stop you if you’re being stupid.” Shepard replies easily, despite anticipation twisting his nerves into live wires. Scott’s lips curve into a smile, and Shepard finds himself transfixed, watching as Scott draws closer. 

“You sure about that?” Scott’s question is somewhere between a laugh and a whisper, close enough for Shepard to taste the whiskey on those lips. 

“Yes.” 

Scott fills his senses in the best possible way, that following instant. His lips are soft and warm, gentle, but firm. It’s the smell of whiskey, the taste of sweat-salted skin, the scratch of his stubble --  _ everything _ , it’s so intricate in the way it all belongs to Scott. Shepard remembers it in a blinding rush, his breath catching in his throat at the way Scott plays him so easily, so familiarly. He kisses back then, demanding and insistent, a hand curling at the back of Scott’s neck, drawing an appreciative hum from Scott. 

They break apart, Scott with breathless laughter, and Shepard left reeling with open-mouthed surprise. The pleasant kind. 

“Cade?” Scott nudges his nose against Shepard’s, drawing a quiet, shaky laugh from him as he comes to his senses. Shepard swallows audibly as his laughter subsides, eyes drifting from Scott’s lips back up to that old familiar blue.

“Yeah?” Shepard manages a reply, eventually. 

“Are you okay?” Scott asks quietly, brow furrowing as he looks over Shepard’s unreadable expression. Shepard nods lamely, breathing sharply as he finds himself keenly aware of just how close Scott is staying. 

“...I think so.” Shepard knows how ridiculous he sounds, and it shows on Scott’s face when his lips quirk into another grin, “Sorry, I’m just… It’s just so easy.” 

“What is?” Scott pushes, not faltering even for a moment. That gives Shepard more confidence than he’ll admit.

“Being with you.” Shepard admits, “Not even like this, Scott, just… knowing you’re here. It just throws me off, because everything else has been so fucking difficult and you just make it…  _ okay _ .”

Scott looks taken aback, blinking in surprise as his mouth parts on empty words. Shepard wonders if he’s said too much, too soon, but Scott’s lips are back on his with a new intensity, his hands slipping over Shepard’s shoulders to his neck, thumbs running mirror lines along his jaw, coaxing him easily into a deeper kiss. Shepard relents, his own hands finding their way to Scott’s waist, tugging him closer with an urgency he’s reluctant to show. Scott obliges, shifting easily into Shepard’s lap without breaking the kiss, knees resting either side of Shepard’s hips.

“I’m here, Cade. I’m  _ here _ .” Scott mumbles into the spaces left between them, and Shepard has to break the kiss again, breathing heavily as he buries his face in the crook of Scott’s neck. He breathes in his scent, familiar and comforting, and clutches tighter at Scott’s shirt, letting the fear ebb away for quiet certainty. They stay like that for a few moments longer, finding an almost-home in each other; a place with no name, only a familiar skyline. 

“Don’t go. I just-- Stay. With me? Tonight?” Shepard half-mumbles into Scott’s neck, pulling away to look him in the face halfway through his sentence. He needs to gauge Scott’s reaction for himself, to see where he stands. Scott’s eyes are searching, flickering over Shepard’s face for something, and Shepard can only assume he’s found it because he nods, slow and certain, and a smile curves his lips again. 

“My place is kind of a wreck--” Shepard snorts, laughing nervously. Scott just runs gentle fingers over the shorn hair at the nape of Shepard’s neck, interrupting him.

“I wanna see it. I wanna see your life here.” Scott tells him quietly, not breaking his gaze. He means it. Shepard almost balks, but the way Scott looks at him is enough to quell his quiet concern. 

He owes it to Scott to be  _ honest _ . 

God knows he lies to everyone else.

“Okay.” Shepard nods, dragging his lower lip between his teeth as he breathes out sharply, nodding. Scott gives him another reassuring smile, before pushing himself off Shepard and offering a hand. Shepard takes it, pulling himself up. 

“It’s not far.” Shepard says, glancing over his shoulder, “Across the market and up.” 

Scott nods, a gentle smile still on his face. “Show me, then.” 

Shepard doesn’t need telling twice. He leads them off the rooftops, scaling emergency stairwells down into the lower markets with a practised ease. When they hit the streets, Shepard feels a strange, familiar motion - Scott’s hand is back in his own, tentative and careful, and when Shepard looks back, Scott’s looking at him, a question in those eyes.  _ Is this okay? _ Shepard can’t help his smile, and he squeezes Scott’s hand as an answer. Scott relaxes, smirking back and following easily in Shepard’s footsteps. 

They string an easy path through the slowly dispersing crowds, through dimmed neon streets and up darkened stairwells until Shepard stops outside a heavily locked door.

“Wow. Serious stuff.” Scott whistles lowly at the locks, and Shepard just chuckles grimly.

“When you run things the way I do, you make some enemies.” Shepard tells him, pulling the final lock free and opening the door. Scott steps in, glancing around the apartment in quiet reverence. Shepard supposes it’s a far cry from his usual luxury. He shuts the door behind them, settling for two locks instead of the full host, and then he steps into the room. 

“You keep this quiet, huh?” Scott wheels round slowly, eyes roving over the place until they land on Shepard, bright and unassuming. 

“It’s not much to talk about.” Shepard shrugs, a little embarrassed when thinks of how bare this apartment seems compared to Scott’s quarters on the Tempest. Scott seems to sense his chagrin and crosses the room in a few easy steps, his cool hands pressed flush against the thin fabric of Shepard’s shirt. 

“It’s yours. That matters.” Scott reassures him.

Sighing, Shepard manages a tired smile, crooked and golden, and he runs a hesitant finger along the line of Scott’s hardened jaw. The stubble scratches on his fingertips, plays a fond memory like an old record, and then Shepard’s lips are on Scott’s again. It’s softer, this time, more patient. They have time. Scott reciprocates eagerly, pushing for more, but he finds himself with his back to the wall as Shepard maneuvers him carefully. Scott’s hands move from Shepard’s chest down to his waist, nimble fingers slipping under his shirt hem and riding the material up to drag cold fingers down Shepard’s tense back, feeling him unwind under his touch. 

“Scott, tell me if you want to stop, okay?” Shepard steals a break, fixing Scott with an intense gaze. Scott just nods eagerly, breathing fast, lips almost kiss-swollen and cheeks ruddy.

“I will, but I  _ really  _ don’t want to stop.” he breathes on a half-laugh, half-sigh that turns into a soft moan when Shepard obliges with another deep kiss, tongue drawing over Scott’s lower lip until he gives him access. Shepard is content to simply enjoy the taste of him, the familiar sweetness, the tang of whiskey they always seem to share. Scott has other ideas, releasing the kiss to move along Shepard’s jaw, his stubble scratching, and Shepard feels the familiar edge of sharp teeth along the tendons in his neck, followed by warm, open-mouthed kisses. Shepard braces himself against the wall, hands either side of Scott’s head, and he cranes his neck to let Scott work, eyes sliding shut as gentle sighs spill from his lips.

Shepard hisses when Scott bites down on the joint between his neck and shoulder, sucking and licking at the sudden soreness. The action shoots a jolt right through him, eyes snapping open, and Shepard retaliates with a careful, sharp roll of his hips into Scott’s. It stops him in his tracks, forcing Scott to lean his head back against the wall and catch a breath, lips quirked into a smug smile when he feels Shepard pressing into him. 

“Take your shirt off.” Scott commands, licking his lips as Shepard steps back to do as he’s told, more than willing to relinquish control tonight. He pulls the shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor and waiting, breaths coming in short, hard gasps. Scott just looks, painfully slow, eyes lingering over the length of his body, taking in every new scar, every fading bruise, and every shape he used to know. He stops when he reaches the waistband of Shepard’s jeans, smirking as he leans forward to hook his fingers through the beltloops and pull him back, feeling his warm, bare skin with reverent hands. Shepard lets Scott have the lead, painfully aware of how hard he’s getting, and the stiff fabric of his jeans do nothing to help. He swallows audibly when Scott’s fingers graze the waistband, and Scott’s lips are at his ear.

“You good?” Scott rests his head against Shepard’s for a moment, feeling him nod, eager and pushing back against Scott’s hands. Scott chuckles, lips grazing the shell of his ear before moving back to steal another kiss from soft lips. Shepard tries to think, to plan his movements, but he’s caught up in a sudden storm the same colour as Scott always is, electric blue and captivating. He tries to take some of the lead back, breaking their kiss to pepper smaller ones along Scott’s jaw, down the column of his neck. He tastes the salt of sweat over Scott’s skin, biting down hard on the flesh above his collarbone to draw a soft moan from Scott. Smirking, Shepard follows up with a careful suck, tongue brushing over the mark; a return for Scott’s own. 

“I was waiting for that.” Shepard hears Scott chuckle lowly, feeling the rumble in his chest. Shepard grins, carrying on his exploration of Scott’s neck with eager lips and sharp teeth. He’s keenly aware of Scott’s own hardness pressing into his hip, and he grinds up against him again, drawing a moan from Scott this time. He hears an audible swallow, and then Scott retaliates, his hands moving from Shepard’s back to fiddle with the fly of his jeans, smirking when Shepard sucks in a harsh breath as he realizes. 

“Before you do that…” Shepard tugs at the hem of Scott’s shirt, and Scott obliges to his unspoken request, holding his arms up as Shepard pulls his shirt off and discards it somewhere by his own on the floor. Shepard wastes no time moving back in, the pleasant buzz of skin on skin turning his movements languid, and Scott grows impatient as he lands a harsh kiss that’s more teeth than lips, and Shepard relents, giving Scott his pace back. Scott works eagerly, hands returning to unfasten the button and fly of Shepard’s jeans, tugging the waistband down just slightly, enough to slide his hands under the band and squeeze his ass, feeling Shepard’s muffled moan at his neck. 

“Shit.” Shepard is painfully hard, and he’s almost embarrassed at how easy that was for Scott. Still, he doesn’t dwell on it, entirely more occupied with leaving marks over Scott’s skin, feeling a sharp pleasure at knowing people might see those blemishes tomorrow. It marks Scott in a way only Shepard can, and it makes the thought sweeter as he licks and nips over his skin.

“Cade. Fuck. I’ve missed you,  _ so  _ much.” Scott leans back with a quiet sigh, and Shepard steals a short, sweet kiss that says much more than he ever could with words. Scott knows it, and he smiles into the kiss, releasing it so he can move down, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the hard lines of Shepard’s body. He finds every scar, every cluster of freckles, the taut edges of muscle and the shape of bone at his hips, leading down into a sharp v-shape that Scott runs gentle thumbs along. When Scott finally gets on his knees, he spares a glance up at Shepard, eyes dark and intense, and Shepard finds himself transfixed.

Scott smiles, and Shepard adores the crinkle of his nose, the curve of dimpled cheeks as he looks every bit the wicked tease that Shepard knows he is. He’s just so familiar, so  _ right…  _ Shepard doesn’t want to imagine anyone else. Scott breaks the gaze first, fingers curling around the waistband of his jeans to tug them down just enough to get what he wants, eyeing the hard outline of Shepard’s cock through his boxer briefs, pulled tight. Scott licks his lips, hands curling hard around Shepard’s hips as he presses open-mouthed kisses along the hard outline, dragging a breathy moan from Shepard above him. Shepard braces himself against the wall again, one hand splayed flat against the surface while the other rests at the curve of Scott’s neck, fingers brushing the hair at the nape. 

“Can I?”  Scott hooks a finger in the waistband of Shepard’s boxers, glancing upwards to find Shepard looking down at him, eyes no more than molten gold. Shepard feels a bolt of warmth through his chest at the fact Scott likes to ask, and he smiles crookedly again, nodding. He swallows thickly when Scott pulls the waistband down, the relief of the cool air hitting him instantly and he huffs out a breath, forcing himself to watch. He doesn’t want to miss a thing. Scott looks over him for a moment, but Shepard doesn’t feel the need to shy away this time, and he almost enjoys it. Scott presses gentle kisses to the line of his hip, fingers still dug in tight at the curve of his ass. Shepard tenses when he feels the pressure release, knowing Scott’s fingers would leave marks, but he’s too preoccupied with where Scott’s hand is moving to.

_ “Fuck.” _ Shepard hitches on a breath when Scott’s hand curls around his length, stroking and teasing, a thumb circling the crown until it dips over his slit to catch the precum, spreading it down the shaft with expert strokes. Shepard forgets when to breathe for a moment, breaths stuttering out as his grip on Scott’s neck tightens, fingers digging in as he leans harder against the wall, resisting the urge to push against Scott’s hand. 

“You’re so impatient.” Scott chuckles against him, cheek resting on Shepard’s inner thigh for a moment as he strokes lazily, gentle and not enough, as Shepard groans and slides a hand into Scott’s thick hair, tugging insistently. 

“You don’t make it easy to be  _ patient _ , Scott.” Shepard says breathlessly, and he’s rewarded with another soft laugh, feeling Scott’s hot breath almost at the base of his cock. He tenses, and he’s sure his fingers are going to leave spectacular bruises tomorrow, but right now, he doesn’t care. Scott moves slowly, teasingly, hand sliding down to settle at the base of his shaft, and he follows it up with a slow, long strip along the underside with his tongue. Shepard stops thinking straight, barely thinks at all, and lets himself be taken care of, for once. He trusts Scott entirely, and he needs Scott to know that. Scott shifts, moving back a little, and he makes sure to lock his gaze on Shepard’s before he takes the tip into his mouth, tongue swirling around the head while his hand works on the shaft. Shepard can’t watch, he won’t last if he does. His eyes slide shut, and he braces himself on his forearm instead, head coming to rest on his arm and muffling a loud moan while his free hand works at Scott’s hair, trying to guide him and set a pace. 

Scott works diligently, taking a little more of Shepard into his mouth with every motion, tongue drawing out ragged moans from above him and they only spur him on. Shepard cracks an eye open, at least wanting to catch some of it, but the sight of Scott’s mouth on his cock just sends sharp current through him, fraying and splintering over his skin into a low shimmer of biotics for a brief moment before they disappear. Scott pulls off, his lips popping before he licks up the drizzle of precum, staring up at Shepard.

“Biotics. Forgot about them.” Scott spares him a wicked grin, and Shepard knows full well that Scott hasn’t forgotten. 

“Stop being a fucking tease.” Shepard groans, throbbing with the need for release that Scott keeps depriving him of, and he has the audacity to look  _ smug  _ about it. 

“Maybe if you ask nicely.” Scott’s hands move to Shepard’s thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans hard enough to leave marks on the skin underneath. Shepard hisses, Scott moving closer, but not close enough.

“Please. Fucking--  _ please _ .” Shepard breathes harshly, and Scott finally obliges, taking him easily back in his mouth in one fluid movement that leaves Shepard scrabbling for purchase, almost losing it completely. Shepard stops holding back, hips bucking sharply into the warmth of Scott’s mouth, his tongue unravelling Shepard like nothing else while he works. They work up a rhythm, Scott’s hands move back to Shepard’s ass, fingers digging into skin as they drag up and over his slightly sore hips, light blemishes already forming in the shape of Scott’s fingers. Shepard can feel himself tensing, Scott pulling him closer to the edge with relentless motion, and Shepard’s fingers tighten in Scott’s hair, a low moan splintering into ragged curses. 

“Scott--I’m fucking  _ close--- _ ” Shepard barely breathes out, tugging insistently at Scott’s hair and pulling him off with a sharp growl. Scott looks up at him through hooded eyes, dark and unwavering, a string of spit and precum trailing from his lips that twitch into a smile.

“On me.” Scott tells him, firmly, no room for argument as he curls his hand around Shepard’s cock again, working him with firm, twisting strokes in a relentless pace. Scott keeps his eyes fixed on Shepard as he throws his head back, mouth falling open on a low moan that pitches into broken gasps when he feels his balls tighten, spilling over the edge with a force that slams into him, clutching onto Scott who drags out his pleasure with languid strokes, catching the last of his cum with a sharp flick of his tongue. Shepard focuses on his ragged breathing, still floating in ecstasy when he braces himself heavily against the wall and Scott, legs quivering with the aftershocks of his sorely-needed release. 

“Shit. You always feel so fucking good, Scott.” Shepard says hoarsely, feeling Scott shift away and stand up to his full height again, a satisfied laugh filling the space between them before Scott captures Shepard’s lips again, and Shepard can taste himself in Scott’s mouth. They kiss slowly, unhurried, able to enjoy a long-awaited moment and forget about their lives outside the locked door. Eventually, Shepard breaks the kiss with a sloppy grin, hand moving to the column of Scott’s throat, fingers ghosting over stubble until his thumb lands on the divot at his chin, and he pulls Scott’s attention to him, fully.

“My turn.” Shepard’s grin twists into a smirk, entirely wicked, and Scott exhales sharply, pupils blown wide. He nods, eager, arms snaking around Shepard’s neck as Shepard’s hands settle at the back of his thighs, hoisting him up with an ease that makes Scott gasp, the sound fading into laughter before Shepard swallows it up with a searing kiss. 

Shepard moves them over to the couch, setting Scott down without breaking their connection, and his hands get to work exploring every bare inch of Scott he can find. He connects lines, drawing from fragmented memory and new experiences, fingers pulling together shapes in taut muscle and tendons, dragging teasingly over ribs and hips where he knows Scott is sensitive. Scott writhes underneath him, pulling his lips away to sigh softly, eyes fluttering shut as Shepard explores the lines of Scott’s chest with his mouth instead. 

“ _ Cade. _ Keep going.” Scott groans, a hand fisting in Shepard’s hair as he draws lower and lower, nose brushing the waistband of Scott’s trousers, tented and straining against his neglected cock. Shepard looks up, lips brushing over the dark trail running from his navel, and he finds Scott watching him with half-lidded eyes, lower lip deliciously pulled between his teeth. 

Shepard doesn’t wait around, splaying a hand across Scott’s tense stomach as he pulls at the clasps of Scott’s trousers with the other, fingers working nimbly as they pull the clasps away and run firmly over Scott’s length, thumb dragging deliberately slowly over the dark spot of precum staining his briefs. Scott lets slip a breathy moan, propping himself up on one arm to watch intently, licking his lips. 

“And you call  _ me  _ impatient.” Shepard smirks up at him, but Scott only retaliates with a forceful tug of Shepard’s hair, dragging a sharp growl from the older man. Shepard loves this, beyond words. He loves doing what Scott wants him to do, needs him to do, anything to draw out his pleasure for as long as he can, just for the sight of Scott coming completely undone under him. Shepard works faster, fingers scrabbling at the band of his briefs and tugging down sharply, freeing Scott’s erection. The pull of fabric makes Scott groan, and it’s drawn out into a keening whine when Shepard draws a slow, painfully slow stripe along the length with his tongue, keeping his eyes on Scott. 

Shepard wraps a hand around his shaft, giving a few short strokes to lube it with a mix of spit and precum, fingers dragging slowly over the tip for longer than Scott can handle as he jerks into Shepard’s hand, seeking more. Shepard obliges, shifting his weight onto Scott’s thighs so he has easier access, and he takes his entire length into his mouth in one smooth motion, thumb and index finger curled around the base of his cock. Scott’s whine pitches into a sharp cry, and Shepard sees his hand fly to cover his mouth. Shepard swallows around him, tasting him, tongue tracing every ridge and dragging flatly along the underside when he pulls back and releases him with a pop of his lips, hand replacing his mouth for a few strokes. Scott won’t take long, he’s rock hard from earlier, and Shepard doesn’t want to draw this out to the point of pain.

“Okay, Scott?” Shepard checks in, and Scott manages a sharp, jerky nod, lying back down with a low moan as Shepard returns his attention where Scott wants it. Shepard sets up a regular pace with his mouth working Scott’s cock easily, tongue tracing the head and dragging over the slit when he pulls to the tip. Before long, Scott’s bucking up into him, both hands fisted in Shepard’s hair and pushing, broken pleas stringing out from his lips until his pace turns erratic, fingernails scraping against Shepard’s scalp with a pleasant, tingling burn.

“Are you gonna- ” Scott’s question is strangled and incomplete, but Shepard catches his meaning, and his only answer is to increase his pace, a hand teasing at the base, thumb dragging over his balls and up along the underside vein with a constant pressure. Combined with the wet heat of Shepard’s mouth, Scott can’t hold it, and he comes with a broken cry, hands holding Shepard’s head in place as he spills his load in his mouth, Shepard relentlessly drawing him through his orgasm until the aftershocks hit, body convulsing. Shepard pulls off him, swallowing, the taste of Scott filling his senses as he sits up on his knees with a self-satisfied smirk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Scott just looks at him, breathing hard.

“Should’ve done this sooner.” is all he says, head falling back to rest on the arm of the couch. Shepard laughs quietly, moving up to place a line of soft, sweet kisses up the exposed column of Scott’s neck, skin sweaty and salty under his lips. He finishes with a chaste, meaningful kiss to Scott’s lips before he pushes himself off the couch, disappearing into the bathroom for a moment only to return with a damp cloth. He cleans himself up as best as he can without a shower, and Scott follows suit, taking the cloth from Shepard as he passes. 

The aftermath is quiet, almost uncertain again, but Shepard dares to hope a little more this time. Scott sighs happily, fixing his bright blue gaze on Shepard with a smile Shepard remembers in Arcturus’ blue light. It’s a little out of place in Kadara’s neon night, but the memory lingers regardless. Shepard could look at him all night, the way he’s sprawled out on the couch, bare chest lit by pink and dirty neon, blue eyes sharp and clear in the haze. 

“Come here.” Scott reaches out a hand, and Shepard obliges, moving to settle in between Scott’s legs, lying over Scott’s stomach with his head resting on his chest. It’s the safest he’s felt in months. Scott’s fingers card through Shepard’s damp hair, curling at the edges, and they just stay there, content to pretend that this could be their everyday reality. 

“Thank you.” Shepard murmurs, eventually, breaking their comfortable silence. Scott hums, scratching at Shepard’s scalp.

“For the blowjob or something else?” Scott teases, and Shepard laughs, breath hot over Scott’s skin. 

“Well, yeah, there’s that. But mostly for staying. And trusting me.” Shepard tells him then, looking up at Scott on the last few words. Scott just looks at him, hand dropping from his hair to rub a thumb across his cheekbone, eyes raking over every detail in Shepard’s expression.

“You’re still Cade.” Scott murmurs, “You’re still the guy I fell for, all those years ago. That’s not gonna change.” 

Shepard doesn’t look convinced, but he leans into Scott’s touch and sighs gently, nodding. He lies back down, head settling easily on Scott’s chest, and he tunes in to the rise and fall of his breathing along with his thudding heartbeat. The room is filled with an unspoken promise, that he would be safe tonight, and in the arms of a man he almost loved. 

And if Shepard could even pretend to be a shadow of the man Scott thinks he is, it would be enough. 


	6. Chapter 6

Waking up the next morning is strange. Shepard can’t place it, it’s static on the edge of his skin that grows with every breath he takes. He can feel a heavy pressure on his chest, and his limbs burn with a familiar, pleasant ache that reminds him of the night he’s just had. Shifting, he finds Scott’s familiar arms curled around his chest, hands linked, and Shepard runs his own warm hand over Scott’s arms, coaxing his fingers apart so he can move off the couch. Scott stirs with a mumble, but doesn’t wake, and Shepard allows himself to breathe when he steps away. The scene is terrifyingly ordinary, and Shepard can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t going to turn out well for either of them. Nothing he’s involved in usually does.

Still, he casts a fond eye over Scott’s still sleeping form. He looks comfortable, sprawled across the couch where they’d fallen asleep after hours of talking last night. There’s something different about Scott too. Shepard follows the distinct lines of his hardened chest, the curve of muscle along his arm tucked under his chin, right down to the way his jaw is set in a perfectly sharp line.

This isn’t the Scott Ryder he left on Arcturus. Shepard understands that. He can hardly say  _ he’s _ the same person who left that station either, even if Scott tries to insist that he is. There’s a disparity now, a redshift leaving fragments of missing light behind. There’s a splinter missing here and there, enough to form a jagged edge that time hasn’t worn down.

This won’t last. Shepard is afraid to say it. It will either be because Scott is the Pathfinder, or it will be because Shepard is a convenient ally and nothing else. They are not who they used to be.

Last night feels stolen now, in this bleak morning. It feels as though it’s been ripped from each of them with bloody hands and splintered nails; a last-ditch attempt at something they’d lost a long time ago. 

“Morning.” Scott stirs, voice humming low and cool in the room that’s slowly warming like the outside. Shepard stares, half lost in his thoughts, half afraid to speak. He manages a small, quiet smile in return, finding Scott’s tired blue eyes looking up at him from the couch. 

“You look comfortable.” Shepard finally comments, trying to pull himself back into the present as Scott stretches languidly, stifling a yawn while he fills the empty space on Shepard’s couch with too-long legs.

“Best night’s sleep I’ve had in Andromeda.” Scott says simply, flashing an impish smile at Shepard who passes on his way to the kitchen. Shepard feels warm at the notion, somehow fulfilled, even as his doubts try to tie him down to a sinking anchor. He flips the coffee machine on, digging out two mugs from a cupboard. Hearing the soft pad of Scott’s footsteps drawing closer, he tenses, fingers curling around the edges of the worktop. 

“Busy day today?” Shepard asks casually, trying to direct the conversation somewhere neutral before his thoughts start slipping out. Scott isn’t helping, slipping warm arms around Shepard’s waist from behind and burying his face in the dip between Shepard’s shoulderblades. The gesture almost makes Shepard melt into his embrace, and he desperately wants to allow it. To allow himself something good.

“I don’t know. Need to check in on the Tempest.” Scott mumbles into his back, breath warm over Shepard’s bare skin. 

“They know where you are, right?” Shepard checks, suddenly aware that keeping the Pathfinder to himself all night might be a surefire way to attract attention he doesn’t want or need from Initiative officials. He bristles silently until Scott chuckles, the sound a pleasant rumble over his spine.

“Relax. They know I’m on Kadara. And if they didn’t, SAM would tell them.” Scott says, lifting his head to peer over Shepard’s shoulder as he pours the coffee, steam rising between them.

“SAM?” Shepard raises an eyebrow, turning slightly. 

“Oh, my AI.” Scott says, with a nonchalance Shepard doesn’t usually associate with AI. Frowning, Shepard turns in Scott’s arms, his own hands curling around Scott’s forearms with a grip that betrays his sudden uncertainty.  “Not that kind of AI.” 

Shepard grimaces. “The mind-altering kind? Sure. 

Scott snorts and rolls his eyes, reaching behind Shepard to take a mug of coffee. Shepard just lets the topic go, thinking it better to just not get involved at all. He’s already strung himself up with Scott, and discovering every intricacy of his new life as Pathfinder is only going to make this worse.

Shepard simply watches Scott sip at his coffee for a few moments, almost wishing he could take a freeze-frame and keep it this way for as long as he likes. 

It’s Shepard’s omnitool that breaks the silence with a shrill ring, snapping through the calm air of the apartment. Shepard frowns, pinging up the call with a stormy expression, entirely displeased at the interruption.

“Shepard, clear your schedule for the day. We have a spot of work to do.” Reyes sounds far too lively for this time of morning, and Scott quirks an eyebrow behind the omniholo that Shepard’s staring at, like he’s willing it to go away. 

“Good morning to you too.” Shepard answers dryly, and Scott huffs a quiet laugh into his mug. There’s a beat of silence, before Reyes seems to realize the situation.

“Oh. I’m not interrupting, am I?” he chuckles, the sound filled with static, and Shepard sighs heavily.

“What if you were?” Shepard’s mouth twitches into a wry smile.

“Then I would have to be charmingly apologetic, because you have very little choice in the matter of showing up.” Reyes answers smoothly, prompting another laugh from Scott. 

“That’s nice of you.” Shepard scratches at his jaw, half-yawning. “Fine. Where? When?” 

“I’ll send a navpoint. Enjoy your morning.” Reyes snickers, and ends the call abruptly, leaving Scott and Shepard in their own little world again. Scott pokes Shepard in the arm with a pointer finger, his other hand wrapped securely around the mug of steaming coffee.

“Sounds like you’re the one with a busy day.” Scott says, and Shepard isn’t sure if he’s imagining the disappointed tone underlying those words. “And I noticed you never asked him what it was.” 

Scott looks like he’s seeking a more in-depth answer than the half-hearted shrug Shepard is about to deliver. He chews on his lower lip for a moment, reaching behind him to grab his own mug of coffee, and when he turns back he at least tries to look genuine.

“I never do.” Shepard says simply, “Information on Kadara is worth blood. I’d rather keep mine.”

Scott nods slowly, brow furrowing. He isn’t happy with that. 

“Why did you come here?” Scott asks. Shepard takes a sip of his coffee and focuses on the bitter taste for a moment before coming up with an answer.

“Same reason I ended up in Andromeda to begin with.” 

“No choice?” Scott fills in the blank, words tight with reluctance. 

“No choice. And that’s on Sloane’s head, not mine.” 

Silence drops around them again, mixing with the pale morning light in a strange, halcyon haze. Both of them know it’s nothing more than an illusion, but it’s a pleasant one.

“Isn’t it about time you made your own choice?” Scott sounds faraway in that instant, a blue reminder of their last conversation on Arcturus before Shepard left for the Normandy. It hits home in a strange, almost pleasant way, but it’s tinged with a heavy edge of nostalgia.

Shepard gives him a sad smile in return. 

“Andromeda has dictated my life since I woke up, in ways completely out of my control. The minute I make a choice for myself, I’m giving myself a direction. After that, it’s not just about surviving anymore.” Shepard tries to explain it, but he feels his words falling flat in the space between them. 

Scott squeezes his arm, reassuring, gaze urging him on.

“And… when it’s not about just  _ surviving _ , it gets a lot more complicated. I don’t really want that, unless I know it’s going to work.” 

“Well, you made a choice last night. A lot of them. Involving me.” Scott tests the waters brazenly, stepping out of their quiet embrace to set his now-empty mug down. Shepard just stares, caught completely off-guard, and it’s a few moments more before he realizes Scott is waiting for a reply.

“Well, it’s  _ you _ .” Shepard says, as if that would answer his unspoken question. Scott only looks at him blankly, and Shepard groans, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. He hates being caught out like this, and Scott does it so easily.

“It’s you, Scott. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, whether that’s as my best friend or…. just as somebody I used to know.” 

“I don’t want to be that.” Scott tells him sharply, and Shepard blinks, the force of his words shattering on his hardened resolve.

“I-- okay, I don’t want you to be that either. But I don’t know what I  _ do  _ want.” 

“Well, I’m not here to be messed around, Cade.” Scott’s tone drops, icy and jarring in the stifling heat slipping in through the walls. Shepard wants to snap back, retaliate just as coldly, but he can’t bring himself to say much more than a defeated “Okay.” 

Scott stares at him, almost pleading for him to say something more, but Shepard remains stoic and silent across the kitchen. 

“You’ve got things to do. I won’t keep you.” Scott sounds so quiet, it pulls awkwardly at whatever rusted heartstrings Shepard’s still holding on to, and he steps across the room in a rush.

“Scott--”

“No, Cade. Sort yourself out. I’m not hanging around just when it suits you.” Scott isn’t in the mood to listen any further as he storms out of the kitchen, sweeping up his shirt from the pile of last night’s clothes and yanking it on over his head. Shepard follows after dumping his coffee in the sink, caught somewhere between an apology he doesn’t mean and an angry retort.

“Fine. Go, run back to your ship. You don’t have to worry about staying alive up there, do you? Must be fucking nice,  _ Pathfinder _ .” 

Scott wheels around to glare at Shepard then, blue eyes raging up a storm as he scowls, lips splitting on a snarl. He doesn’t say anything, but Shepard can tell that hit a nerve. He almost feels bad, but his red ire is settling in and he’s had enough. Scott turns back and leaves, the door slamming shut in his wake, and then Shepard slowly remembers what regret feels like.

* * *

“Any word from your lookouts?” Reyes asks, perched on a rock inside a damp cave that he and Shepard are scouring, for reasons Reyes hasn’t revealed just yet. Shepard’s aching from a day in the sun, hauling cargo for Reys, and it’s only making his sour mood worse when Reyes feels the need to pester him with questions.

“No.” Shepard says blankly, boot scuffing the ground with a loud scrape over loose rock.

“Oh. Our sniper should be here soon, at any rate.” Reyes sighs, and Shepard digs a heel into his eye, itching from the heat. 

“What?” Shepard mumbles, not fully grasping the situation. Reyes just looks at him, hopping down from the perch and planting his hands on his hips, expression turning disapproving in an instant.

“The sniper for-- Have you been listening at all?” Reyes snaps, causing Shepard to look at him with a dead-eyed gaze.

“No.” 

Reyes pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. When he drops his hand, he fixes Shepard with a steely look.

“You know, for the night I assume you’ve had, I would think you’d be a little more cheerful today.” Reyes says, almost coyly, but with enough of an edge to let Shepard know that he’s not happy.

Shepard only replies with a grunt, not bothering with any real answer.

Reyes doesn’t get a chance to pester him further, as footsteps echo in the cavern, drawing near. Shepard looks up, eyes landing on the sniper. 

Shepard watches as the sniper and Reyes fall into quiet chatter, Reyes gesturing at the spot he’d been looking at earlier. It’s a good sniper’s perch, Shepard supposes. His attention is turned to the sniper himself in the following moment, watching as he pulls out the gun and fixes the scope before loading rounds into a magazine with a gloved hand. Narrowing his eyes, Shepard looks at the ammo box he’s left on a rock nearby, spotting a hazard warning sign plastered on the side of it.

Biochem rounds. Shepard smirks to himself. That would make for one hell of a show. He doesn’t get a chance to look much more as Reyes steps back into his line of sight, launching immediately into a recap of the information Shepard had apparently zoned out on.

“I collected some debts from the Outcasts --  they’ve… taken care of Kaetus. Through that, we challenge Sloane to a good old fashioned duel. She can’t resist a glory hunt - you saw what she did to the kett.” Reyes sighs, cocking his head slightly as a smirk falls into place, “The  _ duel  _ isn’t exacly what you might call fair, however.” 

“You say that like you expect me to care.” Shepard says bluntly, “As long as Sloane ends up with a bullet in her chest, head, whatever, I don’t care.”

Reyes chuckles grimly, clapping Shepard on the shoulder as he passes. “I thought you might be of such a mind.” 

A few moments later, Reyes’ omnitool lights up with an incoming call. He walks off to go and take it, leaving Shepard surveying the vast space alone. It’s remote, out of earshot and not common knowledge amongst the local raiders. A perfect place for an ambush. 

When Reyes returns, he throws a signal to the sniper, who disappears to set up his sight-lines. Shepard watches him go before turning his attention onto Reyes.

“Sloane just left for the Badlands.” he tells Shepard, “If taking out Sloane means we avoid a civil war, it must be worth it, yes? Rather spill the blood of one than of many.” 

Shepard rubs the back of his neck, tongue tracing the sharp edges of his teeth while he thinks. Reyes is right. Sloane had people chafing under her boot, the pressure’s been left to build, and now it’s pushing the Port towards dangerous infighting that would leave their livelihoods in more ruins than they already were. Either way, people were going to get hurt. 

If it’s the Outcasts and Sloane, Shepard really has no qualms to make. 

So he nods, agreeing with Reyes silently. Reyes looks pleased, acknowledging Shepard with a nod of his own.

“Then let’s get out of sight.” Reyes suggests, gesturing towards a darkened corner of the cavern. Shepard follows him, and they lie in wait for their trap to spring.

Shepard can feel his heart racing when voices finally draw near and break the silence of the cave. This would be an end to all those nights spent guarding his door with a pistol, and all the days spent looking over his shoulder wherever he goes. The Outcasts might linger, but they wouldn’t hold a candle to the combined power of the Collective and the Disciples together, and Shepard finds much more comfort in that than he ever imagined he would.

“They’re here.” Reyes whispers next to him, and Shepard nods, sparing Reyes a hesitant glance. He can’t quite look him in the eye, but Reyes doesn’t seem to care, moving out carefully and gesturing for Shepard to follow.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone.” Reyes says lowly, almost mocking, rounding the edge of their cover and out from the shadows. Shepard is close behind, and he schools his expression into something unreadable as he moves out from behind Reyes to land eyes on the group down below.

Shepard freezes. His mask threatens to snap in the instant that his eyes lock on cold, icy blue, and his heart starts pounding faster, harder, louder.  _ This isn’t happening _ , he tells himself. Not now.

Scott’s standing right next to Sloane below, eyes blown wide in surprise as he sees Shepard and Reyes. 

“Reyes?” Scott’s voice is hoarse, “Ca-  _ Shepard? _ ” 

Shepard stands stock still, rooted to the spot. He can’t keep track of what he’s feeling, and so he shuts it all out, and focuses on what needs to be done. Everything else can wait.

Sloane just snorts, incredulous, mocking Reyes right back. “I’m here for the Charlatan. Not some third-rate smugglers.” 

Scott tears his gaze away slowly, looking at Sloane with grim realization. “They’re one and the same.” 

“Surprise.” Reyes says cooly, and Shepard can picture the self-satisfied smirk on his face. It only makes the hurt on Scott’s face even worse, and Shepard can do nothing but watch.

“This whole time, you’ve been lying to me.” Scott’s eyes flicker between the two, bright with a rage Shepard knows well. He swallows thickly, and puts every effort into maintaining his mask.

Reyes looks at Scott. “Not the whole time.” 

Sloane interrupts, almost brushing Scott aside. “You said you wanted to settle things. How?” 

Shepard jumps down from their ledge, and Sloane’s sharp eyes land on him, narrowing as he steps closer with a measured smirk pulling itself into place. He hears Reyes’ footsteps behind, and then comes the killer.

“A duel. You and me. Right now. Winner takes Kadara Port.” 

Sloane visibly balks. Scott looks like he wants to hit someone, and Shepard is moving dangerously close.

“You want to avoid a war by shooting each other?” Sloane snarls, brow creasing in anger as Reyes nears. 

“Two people shooting each other is better than a lot of people shooting each other.” Reyes reasons simply, and Sloane looks at Shepard again.

“Then why is  _ he  _ here?” 

“The same reason you brought the Pathfinder.” Shepard tells her, and he can see Scott shifting uncomfortably on his peripheral.

There’s a beat of silence, everyone strung up in brittle quiet that hangs by a thread belonging now to Sloane. 

“I’ll take those terms.” Sloane voices quietly, eyes locked on Reyes. Reyes’ expression quirks into a mask Shepard knows well, and he looks away, eyes landing on Scott instead.

That’s bad enough. Shepard still isn’t happy that Scott’s here. 

It’s made undeniably worse by the bright red lasersight resting squarely dead-centre over Scott’s chest. Shepard barely strings two thoughts together, skin sparking with a rush of sharp biotics, curling tight over every nerve until he’s tearing through the air, charging straight into Scott to shove him out of the firing line.

Shepard hears a familiar crack of noise ripping through the air, slowed by his rippling biotic field for an instant before it hits him from behind. It forces the breath out of him in a harsh gasp, and then the shocking pain registers. It flares out from his back, surging through him with a roar that deafens him, turns his sight into blurred fragments as he buckles under his own heavy weight and crashes to his knees.

“Cade!” Scott’s voice is there, somewhere, the edges of his words slurring into a shape Shepard doesn’t understand. He lurches forward, a seeping warmth spreading from the bullet in his back. There’s a flurry of movement on the edge of his ebbing sight, Reyes is moving towards him, and he feels Reyes tug the pistol from his holster at his waist. There’s another loud crack, another bullet, another ugly gasp, another thud as Sloane hits the ground.

“Cade--” Shepard feels a hand at his face, feels the soft thud as Scott lands on his knees in front of him, pulling his gaze. “Cade, stay with me.” 

Shepard shakes his head, dizzy, confused, and his speech slurs when he tries to tell Scott something. “Scott-- m’sorry-- didn’t mean what I said ea-  _ ugh _ , earlier.” 

“ _Stop_ _talking_.” Scott hisses, hands gripping tighter at the sides of Shepard’s face, willing him to stay. “Keep your eyes on me.” 

Shepard twists his grimace into a smile, as best as he can. He isn’t going to make it outside this cave. They’re too far out, medigel won’t stop the bleeding, and if it’s the biochem rounds Shepard remembers the sniper loading, they would take hold long before anything else got to him. Even with Scott half-begging, half-shouting at Reyes, Shepard finds a quiet harbour in those blue eyes of his, one that’s always belonged to him, even when he least expected it to. 

Shepard realizes then, with intense clarity, that he doesn’t regret what he’s done. 

And with that, he lets his eyes slide shut, and the blackness swallows him up in silence.


	7. Epilogue

Scott hovers around the Tempest’s comm room, torn between staring out of the viewport at Meridian all around him, and listening to Reyes, his holo standing by the console along with an array of sensor data from each and every outpost across Heleus.

Humanity has a home. Scott lets that victory wash over him again, in quiet rolls of satisfaction, interspersed with the beeping of incoming data from the consoles. It’s been hell and high water, and Scott knows the full cost of this victory, perhaps better than a lot of the people lingering outside in Port Meridian now. Regardless, it’s his, and however bitter, he clings onto it with aching fingers, finally in touching distance of a brief respite.

“So, from one Port to another, how is Meridian?” Reyes asks easily, and even in his glitchy holographic form, there’s an absurd confidence to the way he’s standing, arms folded, smirk fully in place on his lips. Scott sighs, rubbing his forehead tiredly while he conjures up an answer. 

Meridian needs work. A  _ lot  _ of work. Between the secrets of the Jardaan and the accidental destruction the Hyperion had left behind on its impromptu crash-course, there’s a story to uncover in Meridian, and it would be a long time before he could call it home. 

Still, it’s more than they had when they started.

Small victories, Scott reminds himself.

“Second wave colonists everywhere you look.” Scott says simply with a bright grin, pleased at the notion. Expansion would come sooner rather than later, the ability to build on a foundation that had been all but handed to them on a platter. Scott remains suspicious, as he should, as a Pathfinder should, but he’s content to let them go on. They can enjoy their victory, and let him worry about the rest.

It’s the way it’s always been. Scott doesn’t see it changing anytime soon.

“Well, that’s good, hm?” Reyes chuckles over the comm, “You don’t look convinced.”

Scott shrugs loosely. “Optimism got a little too dangerous for me. I’ll believe it all when I see it coming together.” 

“A fair point, Ryder.” Reyes admits with a weary sigh, and Scott knows Reyes has seen the worst that Heleus has to offer, far more than Scott. Kadara’s still in tumult, with infighting between Outcast stragglers and non-affiliated raiders in the Badlands effectively locking down the Port.

Scott reminds himself it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.

“How’s Kadara?” Scott asks, then, curious to know. He hasn’t visited for a long time. He doesn’t want to. Reyes keeps him updated, and that’s enough for Scott.

“Oh, you know how it is.” Reyes says, carefully, with a knowing smile now in place of the usual smirk. “People are just  _ dying  _ to leave.”

Scott can’t help but smile at those words, and Reyes simply nods, his usual farewell, and the comm flickers out. Scott looks up, then, through the screen of flickering orange, information splayed across every panel with relentless consistency, a measure of all the progress being made across the cluster.

It’s a measure of hope, in some ways. Scott would leave that for the people to take. He needs nothing but the promise of a future, and those numbers grant him that, in no small measure. 

He raises a hand and swipes the holos into standby, the space growing dark, and he stares across the central console to find his favourite sight. A pair of golden eyes stare right back at him, crinkling with the edges of a wicked grin that he knows better than anything.

For Scott, that’s the only kind of future he needs.


End file.
